


The Currents

by indigo (indigo_angels)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avenging Angel Aziraphale, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), But They Haven't Joined the Dots Yet, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Whump (Good Omens), Eventual Explicit sexual content, Hurt Crowley, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Suicide of a Minor Character, Miscommunication, Murder Mystery, Post-Episode: s01e06 The Very Last Day of the Rest of Their Lives, References to Depression, Tags May Change, finding each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 53,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_angels/pseuds/indigo
Summary: Post-End-of-the-World-that-Wasn't, a bored demon sets up a Detective Agency and obviously drags his angel counterpart in to help out. They are tasked with preventing a murder before it happens and set off to the Highlands of Scotland - where, of course, nothing works out quite the way they imagine...An entry into the GO Events, Mystery AU Event!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 131
Kudos: 108
Collections: GO-Events Good Omens Mystery AU Event Works





	1. "Big party. Scottish Highlands. Posh House. Rich bloke. Loads of fancy food and champagne.”

The afternoon was drawing to a close, the shadows were reaching lazy fingers across the room, and Aziraphale was happily ensconced in a corner with a book and a cocoa and a crackling fire. He loved the autumn. He loved the show put on by the fiery leaves clinging to the arms of London’s trees. He loved the golden sunshine and the early sunsets. He loved the cosy nights, the excuse to get the fleecy blankets and the warmest slippers out. He loved hot cocoa and warm cider. He loved the pumpkins in the shop windows and the leaves on the pavements. He’d loved it since the very first years he’d spent in the Northern Hemisphere, but he loved it all so much more now that they were free.

The Armageddon-which-wasn't had been two years ago now, and he’d gradually relaxed into his enforced retirement from Heaven. It had frightened him at first, not just the threat of retribution (despite the safety scrambled together through their cunning duplicity and the promises of an eleven-year-old Antichrist) but a genuine terror of what he could possibly _be._ He had been scared for so long that it was just so hard _not_ to be, after all, what was an angel without Heaven? Who had use for one such as him? What was his purpose? His point of existence? Why did he continue on in his eternal life if he was no use to anyone else?

But that hadn't been the case had it? In fact it had never been the case, it had just taken him a very long while to see that. There _was_ a point to him, there’d always been a point to him, and after six thousand years he realised that the point of him was _not_ to be Heaven’s friend, it was for him to be _Crowley's_ friend, and what a wonderful reawakening that had been.

“We aren't friends we are an _angel_ and a _demon_.”

He had said that once, but he hadn't meant it.

“I don't even like you!”

He had said that too – and he had _never_ meant that, not in all the years they had known each other. He'd liked Crowley the very first moment he'd set eyes on him. He’d thought him friendly, and open and intriguing and very beautiful. He maybe hadn't trusted him, not in those early days anyway, but he had certainly _liked_ him. And thought about him. And worried for him. And searched for him when they were apart. An awful lot more than an angel should have done, if he was being honest about it, which had caused him a great deal of anxiety across the years.

But no, they hadn’t been friends, not for a few hundred years at least, and even then, Aziraphale had never been able to bring himself to acknowledge that fact.

How had Crowley had all that patience with him? It had never seemed to make much sense. They’d been together for the entirety of Earth’s history, the majority of which Aziraphale had spent keeping Crowley at arm’s length, reminding him constantly of the differences between them, of Aziraphale’s perceived superiority, constantly casting all manner of aspersions on Crowley’s character and his motivations. How had the demon never grown tired of him? How had he stayed at Aziraphale’s side for all that time? How had he looked out for him, looked _after_ him, kept on returning to him, over and over and over again, just for more of the same obnoxious angelic rhetoric? How had Aziraphale _ever_ deserved him?

And after the aborted Armageddon… well, he had been the one who had sat at Aziraphale’s side, hour after hour, night after night, talking and talking and talking about how he _was_ something all on his own, how he _did_ amount to something, _deserved_ to amount to something, whether Heaven gave two hoots about him or not. _‘You don’t need them, angel.’_ Aziraphale could hear his words, his tone as soft and gentle as only Crowley ever was with him, could feel the warmth of his presence at his side. _‘You’ve never needed them. They needed_ you _to show them how to be better angels, and they have never, ever even realised that.’_

In fact, it wasn’t just then, was it? It had always been Crowley, _always_ , right by Aziraphale’s side whenever he was needed – and frequently when he wasn’t. Decade after century after millennia. Immediately post-Armageddon, Aziraphale had been very low, he’d felt lost, frightened, abandoned, betrayed… he’d felt like the unluckiest angel ever created. And now? Well, he knew the truth, knew that he was the absolute _luckiest_ as no other celestial could ever boast of a friend like Crowley.

He just regretted that Crowley had had to go through his own lost, frightened, abandoned, betrayed stage before the two of them had ever met…

So, here he was, on the other side of the end of the world, with a bookshop he loved, books that he loved, walks and dinners and concerts and plays that he loved, a _life_ that he loved, and yes, he could admit it all now, a best friend whom he loved. A best friend he completely and utterly adored. A best friend who loved him back – he was absolutely sure of that, even if he hadn’t ever been able to pin down exactly _how_ , and exactly what that meant for them both in the long run. But really, he didn’t even suppose it mattered anymore – they loved each other and they were happy, what more could any immortal being need?

As if conjured up by Aziraphale’s very thoughts, the low rumbling of the Bentley’s engine outside alerted the angel to Crowley’s arrival and he glanced at the clock, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. They didn’t have any plans, they rarely did, to be honest, but that didn’t stop Crowley appearing at all hours of the day, sometimes with a box of pastries in his hand, sometimes a bottle of wine, sometimes a book he’d picked up from goodness knew where, sometimes a bag of takeout. It was currently three thirty on a gloomy Monday afternoon, Aziraphale hoped for cake and turned, ready with his smile when the doors blew dramatically open.

Crowley didn’t disappoint, gracing Aziraphale with a lopsided smile the moment their eyes met across the shop, dropping his glasses on the table by the door and sauntering around the various haphazardly piled books, swinging a patisserie bag between his fingertips in a nonchalance that only a swaggering demon could achieve. Only _this_ swaggering demon could achieve. 

“Crowley, dearest, lovely to see you.”

“Afternoon.”

Aziraphale could not miss the way that Crowley’s smile widened at the greeting he’d received.

“Macarons,” he announced, and suddenly the little bag swung the angel’s way, arcing gracefully through the air and forcing a mad scrabble lest the delicacies inside be squashed on their capture.

“Ooh,” Aziraphale crooned once the bag was safe within his fingers. “These look delightful! Where are they from?” The bag was unmarked, which was suspicious in itself, but not as suspicious as Crowley’s shrug which hinted that he’d been helping himself from the kitchens of one of the posher London restaurants once again. Aziraphale let it slide, however, as he had appropriated one which he hoped was raspberry whilst Crowley headed off into the vicinity of the kitchenette, returning with two flutes of what was obviously gently fizzing champagne. He raised his eyes, “Are we celebrating, dear boy?”

“Hmm-mm,” Crowley slumped elegantly onto the sofa, not spilling a single drop from either glass as he did so and passed one of them the angel’s way. “I am anyway. Got a new client.”

“You have?!” Aziraphale had heard the quiet pride in Crowley’s tone, had seen the way he’d sipped at his drink rather than let his smile show again and felt his own warm squirming pleasure wake inside him in response. “Oh, that is wonderful, dear! Tell me all about it.”

Aziraphale hadn’t been at all sure, at first, about Crowley’s new business venture. He’d accepted that it would do the demon good to have something to keep him busy – if Aziraphale’s post-Armageddon blues had been a crisis of identity, then Crowley’s were absolutely boredom driven – but still, he’d doubted his friend had the patience and the tenacity to follow it through. He’d worried that the actual solving of cases would fall on him as Crowley eventually realised that the life of a Private Detective wasn’t very James Bond-ish at all and retreated to his bed in protest. Aziraphale would have mopped up after him, of course he would, but really – he didn’t particularly want to.

But Crowley had surprised him. He had really taken to the role, approaching it with a diligence that had never been evident in any of his temptations, even the really complex ones, the ones that he had worked on over years, crafting and shaping and expending huge amounts of energies into getting it all just so. Aziraphale had always known he was intelligent, a fluid, shifting intelligence, the likes of which Aziraphale himself couldn’t really relate to, but it had been wonderfully absorbing to watch him work, to watch all of that intelligence shift and swirl about them, making leaps that the angel could barely keep up with, never mind fully comprehend. It was a whole new side to him, one that fascinated and (if he was going to be brutally honest with himself) turned him on just a shade more than usual.

Back in the bookshop, Crowley seemed oblivious to the way Aziraphale’s thoughts had spun and was hitching himself slightly higher in his sprawl, dabbing, surreptitiously, at the spots of champagne which had dared to slip down his chin and onto his jacket lapels. “It’s an old guy,” he glanced up, to check Aziraphale was listening, and the angel hoped that he missed the guilty flush in his cheeks. “Used to be a barrister in the city, David Grainger, he was a founding partner of _Rutger and Grainger_ , you heard of them?” Aziraphale shook his head. “Well, yeah, used to be this fancy, hotshot lawyer, back in the day, but then he retired, and then he had a stroke.”

Aziraphale thought this through, he knew the contacts that Crowley had cultivated throughout the years included a rather large number of ‘hot shot lawyers’. “You knew him, then?”

Crowley shrugged, “Of him. He had a reputation of being a bit of a bastard, would turn anyone over if it helped his case. There were rumours, back in the ‘80s, that he’d fleeced his partner, the eponymous Mr. Rutger, when they had originally set up the terms of the partnership. So much so that Rutger killed himself and Grainger ended up with the whole practice to himself.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows and sipped at his drink, “Convenient.”

“Possibly.”

“And now he’s retired?”

“Yes. And someone is threatening to kill him.”

Another arching of the eyebrows as Aziraphale pondered this. “I would imagine that there are no shortage of candidates for the role of suspect. Barristers themselves can attract a large number of enemies throughout the course of their work _anyway_ , but yours seems as though he has a personality to match.”

“Possibly,” Crowley conceded again and leaned forward, capturing Aziraphale with his mesmerising eyes, “But he’s an old man, now, angel. Disabled – stuck in a wheelchair since the stroke. Don’t see why an old enemy would come for him now.”

Aziraphale considered this. “A fair point, although I can see from the look on your face that you seem to have an idea of your own already, my dear?”

He’d obviously played straight into Crowley’s hands with his prompting, and the demon’s lovely face lit up. “Might have.”

Aziraphale smiled back, “Do tell.”

“To be honest, it’s an open and shut case, this one.” He eyed Aziraphale over the top of his glass, drawing the moment out. “It’s the PA.”

“The PA?”

“Yeah. Helen Webb. The old man was dreadful to her, rude, patronising… Like I said, open and shut case,” he leaned back, smug, his self-satisfaction as warming to Aziraphale as it was jarring.

“I don’t know, my dear,” he drained his glass and a smile tugged at his lips as it instantly refilled. “Murder… I think there has to be more than general discourtesy and condescension before a human will consider ending a life.”

Crowley raised an elegant eyebrow, “You think?” he seemed to ponder a while, “Well… angel, I reckon, out of the two of us, I’m the expert on what pushes a human into murder.” He shrugged, and then, before Aziraphale had chance to respond pushed on with: “But anyway, you will get the option of meeting her for yourself and seeing how right I am. When we get up to Scotland. It’s Grainger’s seventieth birthday bash, and the threats are all centred on it happening then.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help the splutter as his mouthful tried to go down the very wrong way. “ _Scotland_? I’m not coming to Scotland with you, dear boy!”

For a moment, the briefest of moments, Crowley’s expression crumbled and Aziraphale’s belly lurched in regretful reply. Then it was all washed away again, behind a polished veneer of indifference and artfully arranged limbs. “No? Well, your loss then. Big party. Scottish Highlands. Posh House. Rich bloke. Loads of fancy food and champagne,” he shrugged again as he finished his own drink. “I thought it would be right up your street.”

Aziraphale pictured it then, not the party and the food and the drink and the stunning scenery, but Crowley, _his Crowley_ , driving all that way, alone, arriving at the house, alone, wandering through the assembled guests, dinner jacket and black tie, champagne in his hand, alone, heading back to his rooms at the end of the night – very much, decidedly _not_ alone and his stomach twisted again. “Well, when you put it like that…” he couldn’t miss the flash of relief that washed across Crowley’s face, “I suppose I would be mad not to. And you could probably do with my help on the case.”

Crowley obviously decided to ignore the jibe. “That’s the ticket, angel.”

“As long as it’s okay, though, is it?” Aziraphale’s inherent politeness would never allow him to crash a party. “For me to attend with you?”

Crowley nodded as he unfolded himself, elegantly, from his seat and headed back out towards the kitchenette. “Course it is. Told them you were my assistant.”

~~^~~


	2. “That’s not a castle, angel."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arriving in Scotland, Crowley and Aziraphale begin their investigation.

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale felt his eyes widen as they rounded the final bend of the long and yew-drenched driveway and swept around in front of the majestic residence where they would be spending the next week. “It’s stunning! You told me it was a country house, that’s, that’s a castle!”

In the seat next to him, Crowley lent forward for a better look, his nose creasing as it did when he pulled off one of his deeper scowls. “That’s not a _castle_ , angel. How can you say that? You’ve been to castle-country, you’ve _lived_ in castle-country. This is nothing more than a country seat for someone with a superiority complex. Never seen an arrow in all its days.”

“But still,” Aziraphale’s romantic enthusiasm refused to be dampened, “look it at!” his eyes were flicking from turret to crenulation to spire to moat, wide and enraptured. “This is all going to be terribly exciting!”

Crowley’s frown deepened further then, and Aziraphale was sure that something biting and acerbic was going to be spat out into the car, but then his serpentine eyes flicked Aziraphale’s way and the angel watched as it was all swallowed down, literally, and, Adam’s apple still bobbing, Crowley simply reached out for a pair of glasses and slid them into place as a black-liveried employee stepped out from the huge oak doorway.

“Mr Crowley,” he was barely out of his teens and looking almost too awestruck to get his sentences out, the Scottish accent thick and his eyes genuinely appreciative as they ran over the Bentley’s sleek lines, “if you would like to step out, sir, I will-”

“No one drives my car.”

Aziraphale cringed at the not-that-subtle wave of demonic influence which accompanied those words.

“No one touches her, no one even looks at her unless I say so. You got that?”

“Err, yes. I…” the poor parking attendant was rapidly back-tracking towards the doors, his eyes jumping madly as he struggled with knowing where to look as he simultaneously tried to continue his polite eye contact, whilst not looking at Crowley’s car at all. “That would be fine, sir. Fine. Absolutely fine. Got it.”

He fled back inside and Aziraphale rolled his eyes as Crowley swung his Bentley into two parking bays at once, straddling the white line right down the middle of the chassis and leaning back in a stretch as the engine obediently cut out on him. “There was no need for that,” he admonished.

“No?” Crowley’s eyebrows appeared over the top of his glasses. “That boy doesn’t look a day over fourteen. You think he’d be able to cope with the complexities of handling a vintage car?”

Aziraphale resisted reminding Crowley that _he’d_ never even tried to cope with the complexities of handling a vintage car himself, and instead followed the demon’s lead as he popped open the door and swung his long legs out into the late afternoon damp. “It really is beautiful though isn’t it?” he remarked as Crowley retrieved their luggage.

The house itself was on a rise, flanked on two sides by thick evergreen forest, the other two opening up to a tumbling vista of deciduous trees, each decked out in their Autumn best, which swept majestically down to the loch below, a craggy, silver scar running through the foliage, its mirrored surface just catching the snowy peaks of the bens around them. Aziraphale could barely comprehend how reluctant he’d been to leave the bookshop and the hustle and bustle of the city, he realised now that he’d missed this in the last twelve years of increasing panic, missed the space and silence of the country.

“It’s alright I suppose,” Crowley’s words were dry, but there was an edge to them which told Aziraphale that he was not as immune to the sight as he liked to pretend. And why would he be? Crowley, out of the two of them, had always been the one to appreciate the wonders of the natural world, it was a mystery, in these employer-less days, that he still felt the need to suggest otherwise. Old habits died hard, Aziraphale reminded himself.

The hugely impressive (pretentious, Aziraphale knew Crowley would claim) doors of the house swung outwards once more and out strode another of the household staff, a butler this time, obvious by his black morning coat, Windsor knotted tie and dour expression.

“Watch out,” Crowley’s ‘aside’ was pitched loud enough for all to hear, “here comes Stereotype the Butler. You think he uses the same polish on his head as on his shoes?”

Aziraphale flicked a glare sideways, caustic enough to have Crowley gesturing, innocently at him and then met the butler’s steady lope with a wide and dazzling smile, dazzling enough, it would seem, to make the poor man stumble. Crowley’s snigger could be heard loud and clear from his side. “Good afternoon,” he sent soothing waves out in the butler’s direction, trying to ignore the sigh he heard from his companion.

“Mr. Crowley,” the butler nodded Crowley’s way. “Mr. Fell. Welcome to _Na Sruthan_. Can I take your luggage?”

Aziraphale had been too busy puzzling over the English translation of the Gaelic name to notice the demon handing over their bags. Crowley’s was black and sleek, streamlined as it glided along on two titanium wheels and weighed about twenty-five grams fully loaded, not surprising for a being who simply miracled all his needs into life. Whilst Aziraphale’s was an ancient carpet bag, large enough to house a tiger and heavy enough to give a weightlifter a hernia. He opened his mouth to protest as Crowley handed it over, only just swallowing his objections as the butler hefted it into his palm with the minimum of effort and Crowley smiled at him, thin and mocking, _‘What? You think I’m an amateur?’_ clear in every line of his face. Aziraphale rolled his eyes at him.

“If you would follow me, sirs?” the butler was already on his way back into the house, Crowley’s case trundling silently at his side. “I will show you to your rooms. Dinner will be served in the formal dining room at seven thirty, the dress code will be smart casual. However, I would be pleased to serve you refreshments in your rooms as you settle in and Mr. Grainger has asked if you could be available at six for a tour of the house?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale had been slightly discombobulated by the mention of ‘rooms’, but managed to reply on politeness-autopilot, not trusting Crowley to do so in his stead. The demon at his side was quiet, his face impassive, his eyes hidden and Aziraphale berated himself for allowing the domestic arrangements to startle him. Honestly, what had he expected they would do? They had shared lodgings over the years, they had been friends, _work colleagues_ , for so long, how could they not? But it had never been designed that way. They had never set out to share their personal spaces; if they had done, it was always just as it happened.

There had been that time when they were both in Bethlehem for the virgin birth. Crowley had managed to secure the last room in the entire town (of course he had) and, rather than let Aziraphale huddle out in the fields with the shepherds, had offered to share it. Then there had been the time after Crowley had had an unpleasant run-in with demon hunters in Pennsylvania in late 1682. It made sense for him to recover himself in Aziraphale’s lodgings, especially as the angel’s aura obscured his own and made it easier to hide from the hysteria outside. Paris, 1793, and a shamefaced Aziraphale agreed to keep a low profile for the rest of his stay in the capital, spending the nights in Crowley’s modest _pension_. Machu Picchu, 1456, and it seemed prudent for Crowley to stay with the angel until he got to grips with the vastly different culture he’d landed in the middle of. The list ran on, plenty of lodgings, plenty of reasons, but never once had they set out with the intention of sharing from the outset – so why should this have been any different?

_It shouldn’t_ , Aziraphale rebuked himself. Nothing had changed that much between them, the safe, professional boundaries still existed, and why wouldn’t they? What had they done to make it otherwise? What had _Aziraphale_ done to make it otherwise? Nothing. He knew that as a stone-cold certainty, and why did such stone-cold facts suddenly weigh so heavily on him?

His musings had led them through the silent and plushly carpeted hallways, up a grand and sweeping staircase until they were standing outside two doors barely a foot apart from each other, heavy and oaken and inscribed with the names, _Taghan_ and _Fèidh_. “Mr. Crowley,” the butler indicated the first door, “Mr. Fell, here are your keys. Would you like a selection of _appetisers_ and _petit fours_ bringing up?”

That brightened Aziraphale’s day considerably, “Oh, yes, that would be lovely! Thank you!”

“And a drink?”

“A pot of Earl Grey please.”

“And a gin and tonic,” Crowley had swung his door open, without using the key that he’d been given, and was running a critical eye over it. “Heavy on the gin, light on the tonic. A squeeze of lemon and a twist of lime. Three cubes of ice. Actually, make that two G&Ts. No, three,” he turned then, made sure his requests had been heard and nodded to Aziraphale before stepping inside, closing the door behind him.

Left outside alone with the butler, Aziraphale could only smile apologetically, take his bag, noticing that Crowley’s had already vanished somewhere, and let himself in, watching for a moment before closing the door as the butler retreated in the silent manner that butlers often had. His heart remained heavy though, he had been looking forward to spending some time with Crowley in the quieter, down moments, of the investigation. It seemed prudent that he had brought plenty of reading material along with him as it appeared that he may well be spending quite a bit of time on his own this coming week…

The door was heavy, but hung on well-oiled hinges and so swung inwards with ease. Aziraphale hefted his bag inside, being careful to not scrape the paintwork or the varnish as he did so, turning his back to the room to close the door and almost jumping right out of his skin as a voice behind him loudly proclaimed, “You might have a better view than me, angel, but I’ve got the biggest bed.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale had spun around, his back thumping against the door, a hand pressed to his heart. “How on earth did you get in here?”

“Adjoining door,” Crowley was leaning over the window seat, his nose pressed to the glass, his eyes on the silver loch below. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, illustrating where said door could be found and adjusted his stance, pulling the material of his trousers tight across his buttocks and raising a flush to the angel’s cheeks. “I thought it would be easier to, you know,” he swallowed then, Aziraphale watched as his throat bobbed above the collar of his top, “discuss the case?” his voice tailed up at the end of the sentence and Aziraphale frowned. “Or whatever.” He turned then, his glasses already gone, his jacket likewise, a look on his face which was uncharacteristically relaxed. “We’ve both got nice little sitting areas, but yours is nearer the fire,” on cue, flames leapt into life in the grate. “You want to sit here with your nibbles and discuss suspects? I’m adding Jeeves out there to my list for sure.”

Not even waiting for an answer, he set about arranging the chairs in front of the now-roaring fire and, suddenly feeling a whole lot happier in himself, Aziraphale set about unpacking his bag.

~~^~~

In the end, they didn’t discuss the case. Their talk spun around, as it always did, onto a myriad of topics and a myriad of times, always directly related, Aziraphale felt, to the amount of alcohol they had consumed. Crowley had drunk one of the G&Ts by the time that Aziraphale had finished his tea, they then had another each, the ice in them as fresh as the moment it was taken from the freezer, and then Aziraphale had phoned down to the kitchens and had another two sent up, which they had spiced up with a bottle of gin he had packed into his carpet bag. They could have miracled some up, of course, but they both knew it never tasted quite right that way.

And the conversation rolled on, familiar topics such as why polar bears didn’t have white noses and whether or not bananas should ever make it onto a pizza, and new ones, like why did Scotland have so many speed cameras? How many leaves were on an ‘average’ silver birch tree? And who the fuck ever thought that haggis could be thought of as a delicacy? They disagreed on all of them, but then, they always had and that was, in Aziraphale’s opinion anyway, part of what made these debates (ramblings?) so delightful.

Eventually, though, six o’clock was rolling closer and Aziraphale pushed to his feet, stretching out and removing just a sliver of alcohol from his blood. “Well, dear boy, duty calls and there’s no rest for the wicked, you know,” he smiled purposefully Crowley’s way, finding something terribly endearing about the way that he’d removed his boots and had his socked toes propped up on the little table in front of the fire. “I need to freshen up and change for dinner, as do you. Shall I knock when I’m ready? Do you think that we’re supposed to go and find Mr. Grainger, or await him coming to us?”

“You chucking me out, angel?” Without taking his eyes off the flames, Crowley snapped his fingers and swapped his black jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt for black trousers and a sinfully fitted black shirt. “I’m not going to stare you know. Seen it all before anyway, remember?”

Aziraphale huffed as he turned from the fire, wondering why it was heating his cheeks so much all of a sudden, and made his way to the wardrobe. “I wouldn’t be bothered if you did,” he busied himself flicking through his shirts when he’d already decided which he was planning on wearing, “and, may I remind you, that times, and norms, have changed quite a lot since Rome?”

Crowley may, or may not have muttered something along the lines of, ‘More’s the pity,’ but Aziraphale just shook his head and bustled into the bathroom.

~~^~~

“So, this whole estate was left to you by nothing more than a distant Uncle?” Aziraphale was amazed that he still had it in him to be polite after they had been subjected to, possibly, the most boring of stories regarding how Grainger Grainger had managed to become so very well off. As an angel, he was pre-programmed to love all of Her creations, but this man was such an insufferable braggard, that he was finding it difficult. And that was before he had started being so dreadfully rude to the hapless Helen, who pushed his (very expensive and very _powered_ ) wheelchair and suffered his constant putdowns without complaint.

“Yes,” Grainger tutted loudly as Helen clipped the edge of the doorframe with a front wheel of his chair. “Careful, you clumsy oaf, you’ll break my ankles next!”

“Why don’t you drive it yourself?” Crowley had been silent throughout the entire tour, listening intently, Aziraphale could tell, committing the layout and the quirks of the house to memory, but saying little, even if his lips pressed together more tightly on every new floor. “It looks pretty state of the art to me. Give you some independence, wouldn’t it?” His tone was blank, carefully blank, Aziraphale knew. He was playing his emotions close to his chest on this one, and the angel felt he knew exactly why.

There was a pause before Grainger answered, a pause which was filled with him fussing over the blanket draped across his knees but then his reply, when it came, was confident and decisive. “You’re right,” he conceded mulishly. “But it’s hardly worth the money I paid for it. The battery dies without the slightest indication, sometimes straight from a charge as well,” he shook his head. “Anyway, Helen here doesn’t mind, do you? Have to earn your ridiculous salary somehow, isn’t that right?”

All eyes turned Helen’s way and she flushed, her eyes flicking to the carpet beneath her feet. “I don’t mind,” she agreed in a tone that could only be described as apologetic. “Anything to help David out.” Aziraphale did not dare look Crowley’s way at that, but he could picture the sneer the demon would be wearing very clearly indeed.

“What’s down there?” Again, Crowley’s tone was perfectly empty, but Aziraphale still couldn’t throw the feeling that Grainger hated being questioned in any tone of voice. They had paused by a small, white door set unobtrusively into the walls and, for a moment, Aziraphale feared that Grainger was going to spin them a lie and peak Crowley’s interest all in one.

The silence stretched out for a beat too long and then, “It’s a short cut to the kitchens,” as with Crowley, Aziraphale found Grainger’s tone hard to place. “Old places like this are riddled with them. They let the staff get around without cluttering up the corridors for the family. Supposed to make them faster in their jobs as well, but for that maybe you need to employ staff the right side of a hundred… Ah, Briggs, perfect timing my man,” Aziraphale startled as the butler appeared, silent as ever, behind them. “Show Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson here the servant corridors. And then deliver them to the dining room for the start of dinner.” It wasn’t a request, Aziraphale noted, but then, why would it be?

“Very good, sir.”

As Briggs nodded, Grainger turned his eyes back to his guests and pushed out a thin smile. “Stupid chair won’t fit down those tiny corridors, so I’m afraid this is where our tour needs to end.” He shifted his body in the chair then, and opened his mouth, clearly about to order Helen to push him off somewhere else, but Crowley beat him to it.

“What if we have any questions for you?” again the tone was carefully empty, but, this time, Aziraphale could just about see Grainger prickle.

“Questions for me?” he snapped. “I’m not a suspect in my own death threats you know. I’m your _employer_.” The layers behind that word were impossible to miss and Aziraphale felt his heart skip a beat; Crowley had only ever had one _employer_ before, and he’d never really taken well to anyone claiming ownership of him.

He only smiled though, almost as if he’d just got exactly what he wanted, and cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, a thinking-tell, Aziraphale knew, one he probably wasn’t even aware of himself. “Questions to help with the investigation,” his voice was liquid honey, the dark kind. “What did you think I meant?”

Another pause, Grainger meeting the blank stare of Crowley’s glasses without flinching. “Forgive me,” his tone was anything but conciliatory, however, “Being threatened with my own murder, at my own birthday party is a lot to deal with.”

“And yet you didn’t cancel,” the words were out of Aziraphale’s mouth without thought and he felt Crowley’s eyes land on him.

“I’m no coward Mr. Fell,” the words were sharp, a nerve had been touched. “And it’s my seventieth birthday. You not feel that seventy years and still going is something to celebrate? Maybe when you’ve been alive as long as I have, you will feel differently.”

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s silent scoff, but ignored him in favour of offering a conciliatory little bow, “Of course,” he offered softly. “Forgive me.”

Grainger only grunted, which Helen took as her cue to leave and, with her head bowed and her cheeks flushed, she set off along the corridor, the wheelchair gliding along in front of her.

“This way please, sirs.”

Aziraphale had almost forgotten that Briggs was there, still and silent as he was, but with an answering smile and a rise of his eyebrows Crowley’s way, they ducked into the narrow corridor behind the little white door.

~~^~~

Briggs, the butler, had been very smooth in his tour, at first. He was clearly well-practised in the role of butler, despite being far younger than his receding hairline, and his cantankerous employer, might have suggested. He had answered Crowley’s questions quietly and calmly, never pausing, never faltering, the very definition of discrete as Crowley pried into his master’s life. Until they had arrived at the kitchen, that was.

That had been the first crack in his façade, one that Aziraphale had seen Crowley zone in on like a heat-seeking missile. “What’s down there?” the demon had asked as Briggs looked set to steer them away from the little wooden door at the end of the corridor.

“It’s just the kitchen, sir,” Brigg’s tone had been smoothly unruffled.

“Hmm,” Crowley had glanced over his shoulder at the door behind him, “are we not going in?”

And there it was, the slightest flicker of an eyebrow and Aziraphale could absolutely see Crowley’s interest pique even as Briggs adopted an obviously well-practised conciliatory face. “Ah, no, sir, unfortunately. I doubt that Cook would welcome our presence so close to this evening’s serving time.”

Crowley beamed at him, the smile that Aziraphale recognised as one hundred percent insincere, and sauntered back the way they had come. “Nonsense,” his voice drifted along the corridor to a frowning Briggs, “People are always glad to see me.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes and followed along.

Strangely enough, however, the Cook _did_ seem pleased to see them. Ada Richardson appeared to be in her early fifties, average height, average build, wisps of mousey hair sticking out from under her blue catering cap, cheeks flushed red with the heat of the kitchen. She was working almost on her own, just one other person in the kitchen with her when her guests arrived, a vacuous-looking, bubble-blowing teen whom Ada referred to as ‘Amanda, the Saturday girl’.

The trio made their way around the edges of the steamy kitchen, keeping out of the way as much as possible. Briggs was looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, but Crowley was a cat with the cream as he slid himself onto a high stool on the other side of the main prep bench and Aziraphale retreated to the only other scrap of room, over by the rear door. Instantly, Crowley went to work, digging, just as he had with Briggs, into the life of his employer and guests far more than a less demonic entity would feel comfortable in. Despite multitasking in the preparation of around twenty different dishes, Ada also seemed quite happy, answering his questions without pause or preamble and seeming completely drawn in by Crowley’s open enthusiasm for everything she had in her kitchen – Aziraphale wasn’t even sure that it was fake.

The interview pushed on, Ada gave her opinions on everything and it was clear to Aziraphale that Crowley was rapidly becoming a favourite. Aziraphale noted every time she made him taste her wares, appetiser after _amuse bouche_ after hors d’ouvre, each one greeted with enthusiasm, despite Aziraphale knowing exactly how little he usually ate. It was only when the phone in the corner of the kitchen rang, that her expression darkened. Mid-lift of a spoon of Coronation Chicken up to Crowley’s lips, she stopped, leaving Crowley leaning, awkwardly towards her, and watched, pursed lips, as Briggs loped to the end of the counter and lifted the phone, a practised, “Yes, sir?” sliding from his lips as he answered. The kitchen fell silent as he listened, even the pot of diced potatoes par-boiling on the hob settled into a quieter bubble whilst as expressionless Briggs held the ancient receiver to his ear. “Very good, sir. Right away.”

He nodded as he replaced the receiver into the cradle and looked Crowley’s way, opening his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by an indignant huff from the other end of Crowley’s tasting spoon. “What does he want now, then?” Ada bit out, almost choking Crowley with the velocity at which the Coronation Chicken entered his mouth, “Doesn’t he know we’ve got his stupid buffet to get on the table by seven thirty?”

Briggs looked mortified at the outburst, his eyes jumping to Crowley, then Aziraphale, before finally settling the Cook’s way once more. “Ada…” he warned quietly.

“What?” but she wasn’t to be put off. “It’s true. He expects miracles from us, he does.” She turned to Crowley then, barely waiting for him to swallow down the last of the Coronation Chicken before she was offering him a crab vol-au-vent. “Twenty guests he’s invited all the way up here, you know, for the whole week as well! It’s usually just him and Helen, Pratik sometimes as well, and has he let us take any more kitchen staff on? No, he bloody well hasn’t. Just Amanda the Saturday girl, and she hasn’t got a clue, have you dear?” Amanda shook her head, a deer in the headlights, as she stirred a pan of white sauce.

Briggs looked very uncomfortable, almost as if he had swallowed a crab vol-au-vent whole and decided to ignore the Cook, turning to Crowley instead. “I apologise, sir. Mr. Grainger would have me attend to him in his rooms, and so I must escort you and Mr. Fell along to the formal dining room to wait for-”

“Rubbish!” Ada put down her spoon and man-handled Briggs towards the door to the corridor. “You go and see what old crusty-undies wants, I’ll look after these two myself, deliver them to the dining room at the right time, give me an excuse to check that the upstairs lot are serving my food properly,” she nodded, satisfied, but it seemed that Briggs was far from convinced.

“Ada,” he murmured again, clearly uncomfortable in discussing anything regarding their employer in front of their guests.

“Robbie,” and suddenly, the tone shifted, Aziraphale had looked over at that softly spoken word, his brows drawing together in realisation even as Crowley took advantage of the distraction to pinch another vol-au-vent from the tray. Ada had stepped closer to Briggs, much closer and a blush had risen onto the butler’s gaunt cheeks in response. “You go,” the soft voice continued. “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay – I keep on telling you that.”

They looked at each other, a silent conversation taking place between them and then, with a nod Crowley and Aziraphale’s way and a curt, “Sirs,” Briggs left.

After that, Ada and Amanda the Saturday girl had stepped up a gear in their preparation – although Ada did manage to slow down every few minutes or so to lean over and pop something else into Crowley’s mouth, the sight of him dutifully opening up like a little baby bird doing something strange to Aziraphale’s insides.

“So, who are you then?” she eventually asked as Amanda the Saturday girl went off to load the first of the dishes into the dumb waiter and Crowley, sitting on a high wooden stool on the far side of the kitchen work top to Ada, stopped in his chewing to meet her eye.

“He’s not told you?” Sometimes, Aziraphale could only marvel at Crowley’s naivety.

Ada shook her head. “No. He said that you were consultants. From London. And we should answer all of your questions. Consultants in what though, he was less willing to say.”

Crowley glanced over and Aziraphale arched an eyebrow at him.

“Robbie thinks that you’re those management types. You know? Time and motion studies and all that. He thinks that tight-arse Grainger is trying to spend even less money on his staff.”

Crowley smiled, a more genuine one this time and Aziraphale almost felt Ada deflate. “Nah, we’re not that. Consultants maybe, but not staffing.”

  
  
“What then?” it seemed that Ada had had no compunction about meeting his blank gaze head on.

Crowley shrugged, “On a more personal level.”

Ada raised an eyebrow at them, “You’re matchmakers?!”

The laughter was soft and genuine and rare enough in company to get Aziraphale’s eyes back on his demon. “No. Absolutely not that.”

Ada laughed too then, and held a tiny plate his way, “Prawn toast with wasabi,” she told him and he huffed appreciatively as she popped it into his mouth.


	3. "Maybe you should take your own advice, my dear?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three, where green-eyed monsters crash the party, and Crowley's new case takes its first twisty-twist...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the Tags - additional ones added :)

~~*~~

A quick glance at his pocket watch confirmed what Aziraphale had already suspected: it was late, late enough for him to be craving the quiet of his room and a good book, Crowley’s silent company and a smooth warm port to finish off the evening. Instead, he was sipping warm champagne in the corner of the formal dining room, which had been repurposed into a buffet hall for tonight’s ‘meet and greet’ session. In terms of trying to work out who had been threatening to kill Grainger off, the evening had been reasonably unsuccessful, in terms of time spent enjoying Crowley’s company, it had been even less so.

Their trip through the labyrinthine servants’ corridors had provided them with nothing more than the realisation that anyone who so desired – and had a plan of the house to hand – could get from one wing to the other without anyone else ever seeing them. Only that, and there were probably two more names to add to Crowley’s growing list of suspects, which already contained everyone they had, so far, met.

And as to Crowley’s company… Aziraphale sipped his drink and watched his demonic partner across the room. Crowley was currently the centre of attention in a little group of five standing off towards the huge inglenook fireplace and the angel tried to remember who all the others were.

Pratik Chadha , Grainger Grainger’s personal secretary – Aziraphale had met him briefly, had found him buttoned up very tight and hadn’t trusted the way his eyes shone like beetles, following everyone around him above an expressionless face.

Samuel Grainger, Grainger’s son – an investment banker, Aziraphale remembered, a man who seemed to live for his work, tall and broad with an expression as grey as his suit which, rather uncomfortably, put Aziraphale in mind of Gabriel.

Fabio Trentini and Elsie Floyd – they had arrived late and Aziraphale had done nothing else but nod a hello at their introduction. They lived locally, Elsie an old friend of Grainger’s daughter, Annabel, and Fabio a holiday romance who had followed her home, and, right now, they seemed to be enamoured with Crowley and the tale he was weaving.

Something shifted uncomfortably in Aziraphale as he watched, not appreciating the smug half-smile that Fabio was wearing or the way that Elsie was tossing her hair in Crowley’s direction any more than he appreciated the cold hostility and the bored superiority in the eyes of Pratik and Samuel respectively.

“ _Aziraphale Fell_ , what an unusual name.”

Aziraphale startled slightly, attention drawn from Crowley and his entourage, by the voice at his elbow and turned to find a young, unassuming looking blond man smiling pleasantly at him whilst holding a glass of red wine. He blinked, wracking his memories to see if he could remember who this was, wondering if he could remember being introduced, feeling at a distinct disadvantage that he could recall nothing. The young man’s smile widened, even as the hint of an embarrassed flush crept across his cheekbones, “James,” he filled into the awkward silence as Aziraphale continued to flounder. “James Shephard. My parents are good friends of David.”

Something somewhere in the very depths of Aziraphale’s mind kicked up the names Joyce and William Shepherd, old friends of Grainger indeed. He couldn’t quite remember that they had had a son, but he conceded that he could very well have presumed that said son was still in short trousers…

“Of course,” finally, he found his tongue and offered a hand to shake, “You must forgive me. So many new faces tonight! And each one with a name to learn.”

Grainger sipped his wine, his eyes the brightest cornflower blue that Aziraphale had ever seen on a human and nodded ever so slightly, gaze skipping, for the briefest of moments, over the angel’s shoulder and back again. “Absolutely. And we only have to remember two. It hardly seems fair.”

Aziraphale resisted the temptation to turn and flick at look at Crowley himself.

“So, _Aziraphale_ then-”

“Ah, and what do you-”

They both spoke at once, stammering to a halt at the same time, the blush on James’ cheeks heightening at the awkwardness of the attempted conversation.

“I apologise-”

“After you-”

And again, this time, the sheer comedy of the situation breaking through and cracking open the discomfort with peals of laughter from both sides.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale got hold of himself first, noting the way that his automatic endearment pinkened the flush on James’ cheeks further still. “I _do_ apologise! You go first – was there something you wanted to ask?”

“Er, yes well,” another mouthful of drink, a nervous look up at Aziraphale from under his lashes. “It was just your name really. It’s so unusual. _Aziraphale_ , I’ve never heard the like of it before,” he shrugged, petering out in embarrassment.

“Ah, yes,” Aziraphale had asked Crowley about this, about using his real name with these humans, but the demon had just shrugged and muttered, _‘Not gonna try and use some fancy alias when I’m pissed, angel. Too late to change your name now.’_ Not entirely helpful in terms of backstory. “I suppose it’s a bit of a mouthful but, I’m used to it now.”

James nodded, considering. “I was wondering where it came from? I mean, is it a historical name, or did your mother, well – make it up?” He stopped then, his eyes widening at his possible faux pas, but Aziraphale merely laughed.

“I believe my Mother _did_ make it up, to be quite honest with you. She tended to do that a lot, you see. No lists of baby names on the internet when I was cre-, er born.”

James sipped his wine again. “No, I imagine not. It’s very striking though. Very memorable.” 

Aziraphale smiled, strangely pleased that his new acquaintance liked it. The smile faded, however, with the raucous laughter that reached him from over his shoulder and this time he couldn’t help but glance back at Crowley and his entourage. Instantly, he wished he hadn’t as his stomach clenched in some hot, unnamed emotion. Elsie had shifted even closer to Crowley in the few minutes that Aziraphale had been otherwise distracted, and now she was almost plastered up against his side, gazing up into his face in doe-eyed adoration. Fabio, meanwhile was even less subtle, he’d moved so close that Aziraphale could see the hand he had resting, proprietorially, on the curve of the demon’s hip as he leaned in to talk, rather intimately, right into Crowley’s personal space. Aziraphale would have rescued him, would have caused a distraction or interfered with their thoughts and given Crowley chance to extract himself except – it was blatantly obvious that the demon was loving the attention.

“I’m sorry…”

Aziraphale startled, he’d forgotten that James was there, and this time it was _his_ cheeks that flushed, even as he raised his eyebrow in a question, hoping to brazen it all out.

“I mean,” James gestured, clumsily, across the room. “Your partner, _business_ partner,” the clarification was hasty, awkward, and Aziraphale couldn’t help wincing at it which, of course, James misconstrued. “No? I am sorry. _Partner_ then, yes, well-”

“Business partner,” Aziraphale clarified over the top of him, though he was unsure if he was even _that_.

James looked at him, his gaze steady and confused, Aziraphale really couldn’t blame him. “Anyway,” he’d obviously decided to blunder onwards, nodding awkwardly Crowley’s way. “He seems to be enjoying himself. Quite the life and soul of the party.”

At that point, peals of laughter again reached them from the growing gathering by the fire, but Aziraphale was not immune to the dark looks being thrown across the room, either from a scowling Grainger, or a statuesquely haughty figure standing, ram-rod straight, near the doorway, her eyes flashing daggers at the laughing demon.

“Don’t mind her,” James’ voice was soft at his side, “She looks like that any anyone who hogs her limelight. She’s very much usually the centre of attention wherever she goes. I fear she will not like your Anthony stealing her mantle.”

Aziraphale did not reply, they both watched as Crowley seemed to feel the cold, hard eyes on him from across the way and turned to the staring woman, smirking in a way that Aziraphale knew was designed to irritate, whilst raising his glass a little in mock-greeting. It was like a spark to a firework, and, barely pausing to thud her glass down on a nearby table top, the woman turned and left, stalking impressively quickly on five inch heels.

“Although,” James was still providing his own running commentary. “It does seem that he’s more than happy with all the eyes upon him?”

Crowley had turned from the door and was laughing again, his throat a column of alabaster that both Elsie and Fabio could not seem to look away from. Aziraphale could, and did, however. That way, lay madness; he knew that from six thousand years of bitter experience and so he pointedly turned his back on the whole show, instead deciding to give both James, and the buffet, his complete attention.

“Who on earth is she?” he asked as he picked up of Ada’s crab vol-au-vents, mildly surprised to find them still piping hot, and was just in time to watch James’ guileless eyes open wide at the question.

“Who is she?” he echoed, thumb hooking back towards the door, “Her?”

Aziraphale nodded as he chewed, very used to feeling out of the current loop of any day.

James shook his head. “Karalina Bridgewater,” he announced with gravitas, eyes widening even further as Aziraphale shrugged at him. “Goes by the professional name of _Kara_?” Aziraphale shrugged again and James let out a delightful little laugh of disbelief. “The supermodel?” This time Aziraphale shook his head. “But, you’re from London, right? Her face must be all over the billboards down there. And she’s been Dior’s leading model for years.”

Aziraphale thought about that. Crowley always teased that he walked around with his head stuck in the plot of a book, even if he didn’t have a book in his hands, which generally, he didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t such a tease after all… “I’m sorry,” he did feel that he was disappointing James somehow with his lack of knowledge on popular culture. “It’s not really my area of expertise, you know?”

James nodded at him, smiling again and Aziraphale found himself thinking what a lovely smile the young man had. “Well, I doubt you’re missing much to be honest. She is a supermodel. Definitely rich, probably spoilt and possibly shallow and petty. I think that’s all there is.” He shuffled himself so that he was leaning against the edge of the table and took a sip of wine. “But I think that I would far rather hear about what exactly is your ‘ _area of expertise’_ than talk about her…”

Despite himself, Aziraphale lit up like the sun.

~~^~~

The walk back to their rooms was silent, Crowley leaving his effervescent mood behind in the dining room, the angel in no mood to inadvertently trigger an argument. They arrived back at their doors and Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and turned to say goodnight – he loved his friend dearly, but Crowley could be twisting and confusing when he wanted to be, and Aziraphale was in no mood for them to spend the rest of the evening sniping at each other.

His words died on his tongue, however, as he saw the look Crowley flicked at him, his glasses gone, his eyes tired and red rimmed and with the slightest edge of _fear_ shot through them. As he always did, Aziraphale melted. “Night cap, dear boy?” he offered softly, and Crowley’s shoulders dropped around three inches, the fear melting from his eyes, the edges of a smile tugging at his lips.

“Sure,” with a flick, Aziraphale’s door was open. “We can swap notes on suspects.”

Not surprisingly, they didn’t, even though they talked until Crowley fell asleep on the sofa in front of Aziraphale’s fire.

~~^~~

They did talk the next morning, however. Aziraphale had been reluctant to leave Crowley alone and head down to breakfast in the sun room, and so he had called down to the kitchens to ask if it would be possible for him to have something simple sent up. It sounded like it had been Amanda the Saturday Girl who had answered the phone to him, but it was the young lad who had had the misfortune of trying to park Crowley’s car who brought it up. Ben, Aziraphale read on his name badge, was efficient and courteous and could not stop his wide eyes from flicking in barely disguised terror to the door next to Aziraphale’s. The angel chuckled to himself, wondering what he would do if he saw the demon sprawled in sleep across his sofa barely metres away from them.

“Thank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale sent a little _calm_ out his way. “Please tell the lovely cook that this looks just the ticket!”

Nodding dumbly, and no doubt wondering if he would get a clip around his ear for telling Ada such a thing, Ben retreated and Aziraphale wheeled the trolley into his room.

Ada had outdone herself with his request for a ‘simple’ breakfast, and, since everything came in sets of two, he strongly suspected that it was Crowley’s instant role as favourite which had entitled him to the spread. He spent a few happy moments lifting lids and sniffing and smiling and anticipating, before a gravelly voice from the depths of the sofa remarked, “For fuck’s sake, angel, can’t you _relish_ a little more quietly over there? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Aziraphale knew better than to respond to that with anything other than a black coffee shoved in the vague direction the noise had emanated, although he couldn’t help smiling fondly as an elegant hand slid out from under the tartan blanket (which came with the room) and gripped onto the mug like grim death.

Withdrawing to the table in the window, Aziraphale started on one of the bowls of porridge, watching in silence as the familiar red head slowly appeared over the back of the sofa and, eventually, two bleary yellow eyes regarded him balefully.

“Good morning, my dear.”

Crowley grunted and sipped at his coffee for a few minutes before slowly uncurling his limbs from the sofa cushions and, blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl, shuffled over to collapse, dramatically, into the chair across from the angel. “Too bloody early,” was his greeting, although he did grunt in something like thanks as Aziraphale pushed the coffee pot his way.

They drank and ate in silence, and Aziraphale watched Crowley’s spine as it gathered degrees, slowly reaching a decent approximation of day-time straight, timing his moment to speak when he was around eight degrees off his usual measure of a slouch. “I think it may be prudent to discuss what we found out at the soiree last night, my dear,” he glanced up, checking the reaction, “I have opened a new note-book for us, and already made a list of party guests in alphabetical order on surname.”

This was nothing new, Aziraphale did this for all of Crowley’s investigations, and, whilst Crowley had, originally rolled his eyes and scoffed loudly whenever the note-book was produced, he had obviously long-since realised just what a boon Aziraphale’s own brand of fussy organisation could be on a large case such as this. “Servants too,” he muttered into his mug and Aziraphale nodded sagely.

“Of course. I have them on a new page. Where would you like to begin?”

There was a moment of silence whilst Crowley finished his drink and the angel knew that he was collecting thoughts from the hazy corners of his sleepy mind. Eventually, he leaned forward a little and tapped at a name on the list. “Helen Webb. I still think she has it in her. Grainger treats her like shit.”

Aziraphale pondered as he munched on a toasted English muffin lashed with cream cheese and topped with smoked salmon slivers, eventually shaking his head. “I don’t know, my dear. I sensed a lot of love and tolerance from her.”

“Of course she’s tolerant,” Crowley leaned back in his seat and nursed his coffee into his chest, “or she’d have killed him years ago. That tolerance is making her bide her time.”

“Then why warn him?”

For a moment, Crowley was silent and Aziraphale could see that he was thinking it through. Eventually he shrugged, “Maybe she’s just messing with him?” but Aziraphale knew that, as much as he would never admit it, Aziraphale had poked a large enough hole in the case and his heart wasn’t really in the suggestion any longer. 

“So, who else?” Aziraphale prompted.

There was a loaded pause and then a careful. “You go next.”

Aziraphale finished his muffin. He took a careful sip of tea. Lifting his napkin, he dabbed, delicately, at the edges of his mouth. Then he folded the napkin once more, before finally setting it back into his lap. He lifted his eyes and met Crowley’s own, “Elsie Floyd and Fabio Trentini.”

The pause was loaded, Crowley’s eyes steady and flat, and Aziraphale braced himself for the fireworks.

“Why?”

It was less than he had dreaded. He shrugged. “I don’t know, my dear. I just get a bad feeling from them,” and he knew (hoped) that this was nothing to do with the way they had looked at Crowley all night – the way they had monopolised Crowley.

Crowley stared at him a moment longer. “You have nothing.”

“I have a _feeling_. Intuition. A good detective should never ignore that, you know.”

A scoff greeted him from across the table. “No? Conan-Doyle tell you that now, did he?”

Pressing his lips together, Aziraphale concentrated on selecting a jam for his crumpets. “You think they are above suspicion, then, do you?”

“I have another one for you to think about.”

It did not go unnoticed that Crowley had not answered a direct question regarding his new-found friends. “Yes?” he prompted politely.

Crowley paused, lounging in what was, no doubt, a studious attempt to appear indifferent. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, carefully placing his coffee mug next to the still-steaming pot, before reaching over with a long, delicate finger and tapping Aziraphale’s list once more, decisively this time. “James Shepherd,” he intoned, flatly.

Aziraphale’s chest tightened uncomfortably but he took a breath, seeing the bright cornflower-blue of James’ eyes, the way that they crinkled at the corners when he laughed and shook his head. “James? No dear, you are mistaken there.”

“You think?” Instantly, Crowley was leaning on the table, his bony elbows finding space in between all of Ada’s lovely breakfast fayre, “You have a good reason why not, then?”

The angel was not going to be outdone, “You have a good reason _why_?”

“Why else would he be sniffing around you all night unless he was trying to find out about the investigation?”

Stifling the sharp hurt that Crowley would _think_ that, Aziraphale drew himself up a little straighter. “What investigation?” he countered. “No one knows about the threats apart from Grainger, the culprit and ourselves. You heard Ada yesterday, the gossip mill had us here as _marriage-brokers_ , Crowley!”

“And now they don’t. People who plan a murder in advance tend not to be stupid, you know, angel.”

Aziraphale let out a long breath. “James is not planning on murdering David Grainger, dear boy. What on earth would be his motive for doing such a thing?”

He realised he’d made a mistake when Crowley leaned back in his seat again, his expression smug, his arms snaking stealthily across his chest. “What indeed, hey?”

They looked at each other, Aziraphale could read the dare in Crowley’s face and he wished he had it in him to let it go. Instead, he sighed once more and dived in. “I can see that you are desperate to tell me,” he muttered into his tea, “You had best get on with it.”

“He works for Grainger’s firm in the City, you know?”

“I know.”

“Well,” Crowley leant in, dipping his head conspiratorially, “I heard that his progression up the ranks has been repeatedly _thwarted_ -” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the choice of word, “by Grainger himself. Even though he’s retired. He seems to think of your James as a bit of a waste of space, won’t even let him get a sniff of a decent case, keeps him filing and researching and on a pathetic salary. Seems that James is getting more than a tad pissed off with the fact.”

Aziraphale considered that as he spread damson jam on his second crumpet. “And I suppose Grainger himself told you that, did he?”

Crowley sat back again with the air of a man and a job well done. “Nope,” he countered, “it was the lovely James himself. I heard him moaning to Helen, asking her to see if she could put in a good word for him with Grainger.”

It was difficult for the angel to sit on his swirling emotions at that, but he did his best as he polished off the rest of his crumpet. “Well, there you go then. Why would he tip his hand like that if he was seriously planning on killing anyone?” Crowley was already starting to scoff, but Aziraphale headed him off. “A very good detective once told me that anyone who plans a murder in advance cannot be stupid. Maybe you should take your own advice, my dear?”

Crowley was seething, there was no doubt about that. He sat up, leaning menacingly across the table towards Aziraphale, his face creased in anger, his fingers squeezed into fists. “He’s playing you, Aziraphale,” he hissed, “playing _with_ you! Why else would he have spent last night hanging on your every word as he did?”

Aziraphale felt the sharp hurt rise into a sharp anger all of his own, memories of his pleasant evening talking books and music with a like mind already starting to cloud and turn rancid. He leaned in himself, Crowley had never been able to intimidate him with his dramatic fits of temper, but he rarely indulged himself in responding. Before he could strike back this time, however, the screen on Crowley’s sleek and mysterious phone suddenly lit up, the single word CLIENT, standing out in stark capitals against the black background. Aziraphale paused, Crowley swore and snatched the phone up, barking an altogether far too rude, “Yes?” into the mouthpiece.

Instantly, Crowley’s scowl deepened, the lines across his forehead seeming etched in place although, even with his perfect hearing, Aziraphale could hear nothing of the words that were being spat directly into his ear. The conversation was short, Crowley’s contribution shorter, “We’ll come straight over,” all he said before clicking his fingers, sharpening his attire for a new day and stalking off towards the door, a curt, “Coming?” thrown over his shoulder. Aziraphale spent a moment preserving his breakfast at the perfect temperature for his return, before hurrying out of the door in Crowley’s wake.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that I may miss a Wednesday post this week (and possibly others too!) as my work days have changed. x


	4. "I wouldn’t fall, you’d never let me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events in the Castle take a dark twist, whilst Crowley's enigmatic behaviour begins to niggle at Aziraphale's anxiety...

They didn’t speak at all in the few minutes it took them to get across the house and into the wing where Grainger had his private apartments, but Aziraphale did not need words to grasp how Crowley’s mood had turned from his perpetual gentle irritation with most things Aziraphale said or did, into a real anxiety about what they were about to find in Grainger’s quarters; it was only the fact that he was sure Crowley would have _told_ him, that reassured him that they had not _completely_ failed in their task before the first twenty four hours were through.

Crowley did not knock at the door to Grainger’s apartment, and the custom-locked door did not even consider barring his entry. They walked into the main living area, Aziraphale having to hurry a little to match the demon’s longer legs, and straight through to a door on the far side which opened up into a bright and airy bedroom with windows all along one side. Once past the threshold, Aziraphale stopped, his eyes skipping quickly around the room. He took in the wooden flooring, warm enough to hint at underfloor heating, the incredible view right down to the loch, the hoist and track in the ceiling that led from the bed to what must undoubtedly have been a wet room and the sleek television that was fastened to the wall opposite the bed. The room shrieked of money and comfort but did not hope to hold the angel’s attention over the sight above the bed, could not hope to hold the angel’s attention over what Crowley had already seen, what he was already examining, his back to the room, his glasses pushed up into his hair.

Heart thudding hard against his ribs, Aziraphale followed him, standing at his shoulder, his own eyes drawn up, confusion gnawing at his bones. “Is that,” he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, “Is that _blood_?”

“Yes,” Grainger’s sharp tone snapped through the air behind them as Aziraphale whirled on his heel, feeling Crowley turning much more sedately beside him, replacing his glasses as he went. “Yes, it’s _blood_. And you’re damned lucky it’s not mine at that!”

“Not as lucky as you,” Crowley muttered under his breath as he drifted towards the window.

Aziraphale threw him a despairing glance before pulling a notebook and pencil from his pocket and nodding a greeting to an obviously irate Grainger and a white-faced Helen Webb who was leaning heavily on the handles of his wheelchair. “Right. I see. You are correct, it is such a relief to see you fine and well. Do you have any idea when this happened?”

Grainger had been watching Crowley who was currently inspecting the seals of the triple-glazed windows, but he was quick to transfer his simmering ire Aziraphale’s way at the angel’s polite enquiries. “Oh yes, actually, I do.”

“Oh, splendid!”

“Sometime between me going to sleep for the night and waking up again to find a blood-soaked knife sticking out of a very expensive Ryan Mosley!”

“Ah… I see…” Aziraphale felt the flush as it tugged at the tops of his ears. He glanced back at the knife and the hole it had made in what Aziraphale had thought of as a cheap and cheerful, mass produced, department shop canvas. It showed what he knew about art, he supposed. It still seemed sombre and pretentious to him, the single word ‘DIE!’, scrawled in blood beneath the knife possibly even adding a splash of much needed colour to the whole thing. He frowned, “Why do you think that the person who is threatening to kill you snuck in here with a knife – and then just snuck out again? Don’t you find that a little odd?”

“Do you have CCTV in your apartments?” Crowley cut across him from his place at the window.

Grainger’s gaze slid from Aziraphale back to Crowley. “No. Why should I need it? I have a Private Detective I pay an extortionate fee to, instead.”

Aziraphale winced and wrung his hands a little. “Yes… To be fair though, he is a detective and not a bodyguard…”

“Did any of the staff see anything unusual last night?” Crowley, it seemed, was not to be shifted from his trajectory at this point.

“Not that we have heard so far,” there was a distinct edge of fear to Helen’s voice.

“But that would be your job to find out,” and no such edge to Grainger’s. Crowley, however, ignored him.

“And the blood? Any idea who that belongs to?”

Silence, shrugs and stony stares met his question and he turned away again, seemingly oblivious to it all, back to examining the frames of the windows.

“I expect an update from you before dinner this evening,” Grainger seemed content to address the back of Crowley’s head. “If you want to talk to any of the other guests, they will be at the shoot in the grounds after lunch.”

Silence. Aziraphale shuffled awkwardly in his place next to the ruined painting.

Eventually, Grainger huffed. “Right well. Make sure you get this sorted,” then he twisted in his seat, looking up at Helen. “Take me downstairs,” he barked at her, “and there better be some breakfast done for me, I’ve waited long enough as it is.”

Helen flushed but mutely steered him around, disappearing back into the main living area of the apartments, Aziraphale watching them go as Crowley opened one of the windows and swung his torso outside, looking with interest at the narrow mock balcony that ran along the front of the aspect. Aziraphale turned back to the painting and squinted at the knife. “You know, my dear, I’m not sure that I would be in the mood for a full breakfast had someone tried to kill me as I slept in my bed…”

“You don’t sleep, and I’m sure you’d still manage to force a full breakfast down,” Crowley was now leaning backwards out of the window, his back curved at an unnatural angle, his eyes on the roof above them. “And no one tried to kill him. They’re playing games with him – that’s all.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale fought the urge to go and pull Crowley back inside. “Do be careful, my dear. If anyone sees you fall, it will make it very hard for me to surreptitiously heal you. It could be very awkward indeed.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Crowley let out a breathed, “Shit!” and took a desperate swipe at the window frame as he arced gracefully out into the nothing below him. Aziraphale moved like the wind, one moment standing with his mouth agape watching as the breeze caught Crowley’s hair, the next right across the room, grabbing him by the lapels and hauling him upright, slamming them chest to chest in his panic.

And there, time seemed to hang expectantly in the balance. They looked at each other, Crowley’s glasses still up in his hair, his eyes wide and luminous, Aziraphale, his fingers gripped in terror into the material of Crowley’s jacket. “I wouldn’t fall,” Crowley’s voice was quiet and so soft, “you’d never let me.”

Aziraphale registered how close they were to each other, how close their hammering hearts were, how close their very-human groins, how close their lips…

And then – they weren’t. Aziraphale was by the TV, Crowley, the door to the wet room, straightening his clothes and smoothing down his hair as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Aziraphale turned away from him, his cheeks flushed with blood once more, his fingers trembling slightly as he tugged his sleeves back down.

The silence stretched a little, thickened, and then, voice smooth and unruffled, Crowley broke it. “We need to talk to the staff. You coming, angel?” And cool as a demon cucumber, he was walking out, following the path Grainger and Helen had taken minutes before. Willing the burning in his cheeks and the squirming of his stomach to die down, Aziraphale sighed and trailed out after him. 

~~^~~

It was damp, _excessively_ damp, Aziraphale decided. Damp enough to stifle the voices of his fellow guests as they enjoyed their afternoon with their guns, but not, unfortunately, the sharp reports themselves. Damp like he hadn’t experienced since those miserable days in the court of King Arthur. At least he wasn’t wearing armour though, he reasoned, a slim positive in a sea of moist, dripping negatives…

“A penny for your thoughts?”

The angel was roused from his idle daydreams by a voice at his side and he turned to find James Shepherd standing there, all blue eyes and blond hair and wide smile and Aziraphale couldn’t help but hear Crowley’s disparaging words from breakfast in his head. “Good afternoon, James,” he smiled pleasantly, it wasn’t the boy’s fault that the demon was so bitter and lacking in trust. “Oh, nothing – I was just indulging in a little reminiscing, to be honest.”

James nodded and turned his eyes to the spread of guests across the lawn, pulling his Barbour down against the creeping damp. “You not one for shooting, then?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale wondered how best to answer that one. “Not today. And you? Not tempted to catch a few clay pigeons for dinner?”

The laugh seemed genuine and Aziraphale noted James shuffling a little closer to his side. “No, not really my scene, to be honest. Born and raised in the city. The life of the country gent seems to have passed me by.”  
  
Idly, Aziraphale wondered if that was one of the reasons why Grainger held James in such low regard. But then, from what he had seen of Grainger so far, he seemed to hold everyone in such low regard… “Why are you here?” The words ejected themselves from his mouth without permission and he watched as James’ brows rode high onto his forehead, his expression mimic a stunned fish and suddenly realised how that might have been taken. “I mean, why have you come to Grainger’s birthday? Forgive me for saying so, but there seems little love lost between the two of you and, you have just admitted yourself, that all of this outdoors malarkey is hardly in your sphere of interest…” He let the end of the sentence fizzle away into nothing – not wanting to lead James down any avenues by his nose.

Blue eyes returned to the other guests as their gunshots continued to thump out into the dead afternoon air, but Aziraphale saw the very edges of an ironic smile as it tugged at the corners of his mouth. “No, you seem to have got the measure of me very easily, Mr. Fell,” he smiled more naturally then. “It’s my parents, you see. They are good people, kind people, and dad has known Grainger since their University days. Now my mum is too ill to travel such a long distance and my dad won’t leave her in London alone and so, here I am, the dutiful son, fulfilling their obligations and minimising any bad feeling that might have been heading their way.”

Aziraphale considered that. “Are you sure that was really necessary? Surely Grainger would not be offended if your parents were too ill to travel?”  
  
James scoffed at that and flicked his gaze Aziraphale’s way for the briefest of moments. “Have you met the man, Aziraphale?”

There was little to be said to that.

For a moment longer, they stood and watched the shooters, Aziraphale wondering where Crowley had got to and then it occurred to him that perhaps he ought to be doing a little digging of his own, and perhaps James could be useful for that. “So,” he tried to sound open, casual. “You must know everyone here, then. That correct?”

James cast about him. “Pretty much, yes.”

“So, go on then, let me have it. ‘Dish the dirt’, as they say.”

A look of mild surprise washed through James’ expression at that, and Aziraphale was just beginning to think that he had made an error of judgement, when the surprise morphed into something a little more like glee and his companion shuffled that little bit closer still. “Okay then,” and yes, there was a definite side of excitement in his tone. “Where should we start?” he paused a moment, eyes jumping around the guests and then, with a barely perceptible nod, chose his first subject. “Kara, well, we met her last night, yes? She was the one who did not take to your Anthony that well…”

“She would not be the first,” Aziraphale admitted under his breath.

“No? Well, that’s her husband there, the heavy-set guy in the brown suit. Niles. He’s a partner in the firm, a good man, I like him.”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s eyes were skipping from the statuesque but scowling Kara, to the booming and jolly Niles. “I never would have put them together.”

“No, and you would have been right. She _hates_ him and he barely tolerates her. _But_ he’s a lawyer and so she has signed one hell of a pre-nup… she’d be crazy to walk away from him just yet.”

“What’s she waiting for then?”

“Her own legal team are putting together a challenge to the validity of the pre-nup, she thinks we don’t know. Problem is, that there’s no way that Grainger will ever let her walk out of it, Niles probably would, I think he’d just want it to be done with, but Grainger is a stubborn so and so, he’ll hold her to every penny, every day of the year.”

Aziraphale considered this, “He’s a powerful man…”

“Oh, he is, yes.”

“And so why is _she_ here? Surely she’d be happier staying in London, enjoying herself whilst the cat is away, as they say.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” James’ eyes lit up as he leaned, conspiratorially, closer to Aziraphale, “But she’d love to catch Niles with his fingers in someone else’s pie – any infidelity on his part would nullify the pre-nup and so,” he shrugged, “she’s very much keeping the cat under observation.”

“I see,” sometimes Aziraphale forgot just how complicated humans could be.

“So, moving on, see the old couple at the side? The ones wearing the matching green anoraks?”

Aziraphale thought they seemed very sweet and devoted to each other.

“Gloria and Geraint Lyons. They both went to Oxford with Grainger and my dad. Very old friends, although I believe that, once upon a time, Gloria was more than just a friend to Grainger, if you catch my meaning…”

“More than just a friend?” It was a heady thought – and not one that had anything at all to do with David Grainger and Gloria Lyons…

“Yeah. Engaged actually. And then Grainger went to Algiers on a holiday and came back married,” he shrugged. “But Gloria’s loss was Geraint’s gain and, well, I think they’ve been happy, in the main.”  
  
“In the main?”

“Yes,” James’ expression dropped just a little. “They had a daughter, Florence, she was lovely, the same age as me.”

Turning, Aziraphale regarded him carefully, “Had?” he asked, softly.

“Yeah, there was some trouble, a couple of years ago. I don’t know what, exactly, but Flo was really upset by it all… went for a swim one morning in the sea and… well, they found her body a month later.”

Aziraphale’s chest tightened at the pain he could hear in James’ voice. “Oh, my dear boy, I am so dreadfully sorry. Did she… Was it… I mean, was it an accident?”

“The coroner recorded a verdict of misadventure, but I think that there’s always that feeling that, well, she did mean to bring things to a head.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale watched the couple in the green anoraks as they stood together at one of the traps. “That poor girl.”

“Yeah…”

They stood in silence, the grim melancholy of death hanging over them both. It never failed to shock Aziraphale how, even after all these thousands of years, the death of a solitary human, an unknown one at that, could affect him so. The effect it had on James was tangible.

“Anyway, so,” James cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, ending up with his arm pressed against Aziraphale’s, “Moving on. We’ve covered the Bridgewaters, the Lyons, you’ve met Grainger’s son and daughter in law, haven’t you? Samuel and Rebecca?”

Aziraphale nodded, sifting back through his memories. “Samuel, yes, Rebecca, I believe so. Dark, curly hair? Red lipstick?”

James laughed, “Yes, that’s her. Have you met Annabel?”

“Grainger’s daughter, er, yes, I have, yes…” Aziraphale scanned the across the lawns one more time. He could see Samuel and Rebecca, standing around Grainger’s wheelchair with daughter and son-in-law, Annabel and Jeremy Weir. But still Crowley was most conspicuous by his absence, and he wasn’t the only one, either, but then, as if conjured up by Aziraphale’s very thoughts, three figures emerged from the trees at the far end of the gardens and started their slow saunter back up towards the house. He narrowed his eyes. “What about Annabel’s friend then?” he asked quietly, “Elsie is it? And her boyfriend? _Fabio_. What do you know about them?”

James looked at him then, side on and shifty and reluctant enough to make Aziraphale’s heart twist in some unnamed dread. He shuffled again, his Huntered feet trampling the turf into mud, his arms creeping up to wrap around himself, his eyes back on the three dark figures heading their way. He shrugged, “They seem okay. I don’t know them that well, to be honest.”

Aziraphale simply pressed his lips together.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all - hope you are keeping safe wherever you may be.   
> Here in the UK, we have entered another full Lockdown which has resulted in my real life workload just about tripling. A day off is a rare thing at the minute. In all realism, there is no way I will be able to make a Wednesday posting at any point until the end of Lockdown (mid-end Feb), but I will do my absolute best to continue posting every Sunday. Wish me luck!  
> Stay safe - stay at home if you can - be kind to yourselves.   
> Indigo x


	5. "It’s a good job one of us has an utter lack of morals, isn’t it?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pieces are moving and everyone seems to be lodging a motive for murder, Meanwhile, Crowley and Aziraphale seem to be on completely different pages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the mention of a possible suicide of a minor character. Not graphically described.

~~*~~

Aziraphale sat in the quiet of his room and scanned the list in front of him. He had no idea where Crowley had got to. The Shoot had quickly dwindled into nothing as a fine rain had settled over the grounds and the guests had retreated to the warmth of the drawing room, its roaring fire and the Afternoon Tea set out along the table at the back. Aziraphale, despite his fondness for scones and dainty sandwiches, sought out the privacy of his room, ostensibly to go over the list of suspects, more honestly, to spare himself the possibility of having to watch Crowley and his nauseatingly keen fan club.

He sipped at the tea that the lovely Ada had sent up to him and read down the list in his notebook.

Fabio Trentini

Elsie Floyd

Still top of the suspects as far as he was concerned, although the column entitled ‘Motive’ mocked him in its emptiness.

Pratik Chadha, Grainger’s soulless Private Secretary was also there, although he too had no motive of note.

Unlike Grainger’s children, Samuel Grainger and Annabel Weir both stood to inherit a lot of money when their father passed away, which, rather coldly Aziraphale admitted to himself, gave both them, and their spouses, reasonably powerful motives to plot his demise.

Then there was Gloria and Geraint Lyons – the spurned lover and her second choice husband. Was that enough to lead them to consider murder? Had Grainger hurt Gloria _that_ deeply when he had turned her down all those years ago? Was Geraint _that_ bitter about his old friend? It was certainly a motive, just not one which was that clear in its strength. And what was the story about their daughter, Florence, who had killed herself? Somehow Aziraphale felt that there was more to that than might first appear.

Niles and Karalina Bridgewater. Well, they seemed to hate each other (and Karalina, everyone else as well) but otherwise they seemed to be pretty motive-less.

Then there was the staff. Helen the PA, Briggs the butler, Ada (who obviously had little love for Grainger), Amanda the Saturday Girl and poor Ben the car-boy. Apart from Helen, they were all on the list simply because there was no cast iron reason for them _not_ to be – not that any of them seemed to gain much apart from a trip to the Job Centre should Grainger perish. 

Which only left, Aziraphale wrote the name slowly and carefully, James Shephard. Lovely, kind, gentle James with his blue eyes and his golden hair, who made Aziraphale feel better, made Aziraphale feel warm and _wanted_. Yes, Crowley was right, he probably did have a motive to get Grainger out of the way, but really, _James_? Aziraphale kept him on the list though, just to prove a point to a bitter demon.

Sitting back in his chair, Aziraphale sipped at his tea and glanced out of the window. It was still raining and also starting to get dark. The riotous Autumn colour was being rather effectively strangled by the fog and the mizzle and, abruptly, Aziraphale wanted his bookshop and his chair and his books and his cocoa. It was a Wednesday, a day for traditionally dining out and taking in a play, or even a film in a picture house should Crowley be enticing enough. It wasn’t usually a day for sitting in lonely silence and wondering where Crowley was and why on earth he seemed to be spending so much time with Elsie and Fabio and not even working on the case which had brought them here. There was an uncomfortable feeling in the angel’s gut that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite _enough_ anymore.

At such sharp thoughts, the door to his room burst inwards, startling him into slopping Darjeeling into his saucer, and Crowley stood there staring at him, all cold-red cheeks and mussed hair, turned up collars and clenched fists.

“You’re here.”

As hellos went, it was quite abrupt.

“I am.”

“I thought you’d be there. But you’re here.”

Vanishing the mess from his saucer, Aziraphale set it carefully down on the table running practised eyes over the agitation in Crowley’s frame, and trying not to let his imagination run away over what had put it there. “ _Where_ did you expect me to be, my dear?”

For a moment, Crowley did not reply. Then, as Aziraphale watched him, he seemed to sag from the inside out, pulling off his fogged-up glasses and collapsing, with slightly less elegance than usual, onto the sofa across the table from the angel.

“Downstairs,” he muttered, rubbing a hand that may or may not have been trembling ever so slightly over his face. “All the pointless little sandwiches, the scones,” he emphasised the _oh_ sound in the middle of the word, “and the teeny-tiny little cakes,” he lifted his hand and made eye contact with tired-looking, yellow eyes. “Certified angel bait. Usually.”

“ _Angel bait_?” surreptitiously, Aziraphale tried to slide the teapot to the left to hide his plate of exactly such delicacies from Crowley’s sight. “What strange terminology you use, my dear.” He forced a smile out, noticing how Crowley’s chest heaved as if he’d been running and forgetting he didn’t need to be short of breath. “No, I decided that I had had quite enough of Mr. Grainger and his guests for now – some of them are quite rude you know – and would retire here for some peace and quiet and a chance to look over the list of suspects.”

“Peace and quiet?” Crowley lifted his head from the cushion for that, his forehead creased once more, his extraordinarily expressive eyes, anguished.

“Not from you, my dear,” Aziraphale couldn’t quite stop himself, “Never from you.”

Crowley didn’t smile, but he did flop back into the cushions and cover his eyes as Aziraphale worried at a button of his waistcoat and let him take his time.

It worked. Maybe seven minutes of silence floated by before Crowley slowly pushed up again, the line of his body less tense, his anxiety less palpable. “So,” he leaned forward and poked the coffee pot back to the perfect temperature, “why aren’t you down there letting Shepherd fawn all over you and getting free rein to demolish all the tiny cakes?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and refrained from biting back at the snipe, forcing himself to remember that something had obviously upset his friend. He closed the notebook and met Crowley’s steady gaze. “Like I said,” centuries of experience had proved to him that he could maintain this steady tone throughout the wildest of demon tantrums. “I needed a break, and we need to make some headway with this case, especially if you have to feed back to Mr. Grainger before dinner tonight.”

Crowley pulled a rancid face, but otherwise didn’t refute that comment, instead choosing to swing his feet down to the carpet and lean forward a little, gesturing encouragingly, “Go on then.”

Resisting reminding Crowley that this was _his_ case and _his_ Private Investigation Agency, Aziraphale opened the book settled himself a little more comfortably before going through the list, sharing their combined intelligence, trying not to sound too discouraged at the lack of anything actually _concrete_ to any of it.

Crowley listened in silence and then leaned back again once the angel was done, linking his fingers behind his head and letting his eyes drift up to the ceiling.

“Scorned love and second-best love. Powerful motivators, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale thought about that, tapping his pen on the leather cover of his notebook as he did. “The Lyons? You think so?” He’d known humans a long time, and whilst love was a powerful instigator, he’d seen worse things done for other reasons. “More powerful than a thirst for money?”

Posture tensing ever so slightly, Crowley’s gaze slid down to meet his once more. For a moment, he simply stared, his unblinking gaze as familiar as it remained slightly unsettling, and then he spoke, his voice soft and light. “To love so deeply, to believe that your love is returned and then – _poof_ – have it all snatched away again… Pretty devastating, wouldn’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t know,” somehow, Aziraphale felt that that was important. “But still, if you love someone that much that you are crushed at the removal of their love – would you really then stoop to murder them?”

A shrug was his first response and then, “There’s a very fine line between love and hate, you know, angel. And anyway, who’s to say that anyone is trying to _murder_ Grainger at all? Maybe they _are_ just having fun watching him piss his pants in fear?”

“He’s hardly quaking in his boots.”

“No. I suppose not.”

They slid into silence as Aziraphale studied his barren notes and Crowley poured himself some coffee.

“So, that’s who you’re favouring then?” Aziraphale questioned after Crowley had taken his first sip. “Gloria and Geraint Lyons?”

Shuddering at the strength or the heat or the bitterness of his coffee, Crowley pulled a face and shook his head. “Maybe, not really, could be though.”

Aziraphale sighed, “I suppose we could do with finding out what happened to their daughter…”

“Their daughter?” a single eyebrow stretched towards Crowley’s fringe. “What do you mean?”

“James insinuated that she had suffered a trauma. Took her own life. Two years ago, I believe.”

“Name?”

“Florence, James said. Florence Lyons, I presume.”

“And trauma?” Crowley repeated, immediately waking his silent phone. “We don’t know what, then?”

“No, we don’t… What,” Aziraphale leant in a little, squinting at Crowley’s flying fingers, “Crowley dear, what are you doing?”

Crowley briefly glanced up from the tiny screen, but then was instantly absorbed once more. “Trauma,” he repeated once more. “I’m seeing what’s been going on.”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale wrung his fingers a little, “Do you think that we should? Pry, I mean? It’s probably private after all…”  
  


“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s fingers were busy whilst he spoke. “I am a Private Investigator and a _demon_. If that doesn’t give me the green light to pry then I honestly wouldn’t know what – ah!” he broke off, a flat smile washing across his face. “Here we are then.”

Despite his protests, the angel leant in. “What?”

For a few minutes, Crowley was silent, his eyes scanning backwards and forwards across the screen, his snake’s vision working hard to cope with the text, and then he let out a long, low whistle before flicking his phone back into darkness and plopping against the cushions, the edges of a smug smile tugging at his lips.

They stared at each other, Aziraphale desperate not to succumb but eventually, it was too much for him. “Well?” he sighed, “What did it say?”

“Just what the lovely James did really, Florence went for a swim in the Channel, fully-clothed and in the middle of winter. Drowned.”

Again, that stab of pain assaulted Aziraphale’s chest. “Oh, that _poor_ dear…”

Crowley leaned in. “Also said where she’d been working though. Up until two weeks before, when she had left in sudden and mysterious circumstances.”

They looked at each other, Aziraphale’s heart thumping against his ribs. “No…”

Crowley nodded.

“Grainger’s firm?”

Another nod, one that could absolutely be described as smug.

“So, you think that somehow, Mr and Mrs Lyons are blaming Grainger for the death of their daughter?”

“Sounds like it to me.”

Aziraphale picked up a tiny triangle sandwich of home-baked bread, York ham and pickle and ate it slowly as he considered. “But they are _old_ , my dear, you really think they are up to sneaking around in the middle of the night with jars of blood and a butcher’s knife?”

Crowley shrugged, “Where’s your money then?” he asked as he sipped his coffee. “Those two have the greatest motive so far.”

“You’re right, they do…” Aziraphale took his time selecting between the Ecclefechan Tart and the chocolate petit four to give himself time to compose an answer. The Lyons had the greatest motivation – but Elsie and Fabio just seemed to scream _wrong_ at Aziraphale’s angel senses. He sighed. “Karalina Bridgewater seemed to hate everyone here, I do wonder why she has come, but they say that most people in a pre-planned murder are killed by a family member…”

Cocking his head, Crowley considered this. “So, you’re saying it’s Annabel or Samuel, trying to see off dear old dad?”

“Or their spouses, yes. And I’m not saying that they are, I’m just saying that they maybe could be. Perhaps we should dig a bit deeper their way?”

“So, not a crime of passion, more one of wealth and status?”

“Quite possibly, yes.”

Stretching his long legs out across the coffee table until the heels of his boots knocked against the tea pot, Crowley considered. “We could do with knowing what’s in their bank balances…”

Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath, “Crowley! We couldn’t possibly look-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley swung his feet to the floor and launched himself upright in the same gravity-defying move, tapping at his phone as he made towards the door. “It’s a good job one of us has an utter lack of morals, isn’t it? Or this agency would be going nowhere fast. I’m going to phone some contacts.”

Frowning, the angel opened his mouth to, again, point out that this agency was actually _nothing to do with him_ , but before he had the chance, Crowley had stopped in the doorway, his phone forgotten for a moment as he turned and stared at Aziraphale, his eyes wide, his face creased once more. “You’re waiting here, though? Right?” There was a decidedly alien note of disquiet in the question. “You’re not going anywhere without me? You’re staying here until I get back?”

Aziraphale’s frown deepened and the pain was back in his chest. “Of course, my dear. But why-”

“Cool,” Crowley cut him off as he slid his glasses into place and lifted his phone to his ear, sauntering out into the corridor, his voice fading as the door swung shut behind him, a jovial, “Mahmud! How you doing, you old dog? Got a job for you here…”

Letting out a long sigh, Aziraphale boosted the fire back to life and took another petit four.

~~*~~ 

It was fully dark and still Crowley had not returned, and Aziraphale had been concerned that they were going to be late for dinner, when a knock at his door revealed an edgy-looking Sam and a note from Crowley. Aziraphale sent a soothing blessing the boy’s way, wondering what on earth the demon had done to upset him this time, and sat down to read. The note was brief and to the point. Crowley had finished with his contacts and was now heading over to see Grainger, he would then be back in time to change and go down for dinner with the angel. His edgy scrawl dictated that Aziraphale was to remain in the room and not leave without him and Aziraphale shook his head in mild irritation, what fun did the demon think that he would have on his own? He really could be so incredibly dim-witted at times.

He folded the note into his travelling bag and headed to the wardrobe to choose a selection of creams and mochas to wear for dinner. He was just about to start changing when he noticed a stain on the sleeve of the shirt he had worn to travel up from London in. “Oh dear,” he muttered forlornly as he fingered the cotton. It wasn’t one of his antique items, but it was still a fifteen-year-old favourite, and where was Crowley when he and his miracles were needed???

The stain mocked him as it sat there, smudged coffee or chocolate or maybe even a smear of gravy from the pies they had bought in Callander as they’d travelled. Of course it hadn’t been an issue when he hadn’t known about it, but now that he knew… how would he possibly settle? He pondered for a moment longer, then let out a long sigh and lifted it out of his wardrobe, deciding that he had plenty of time to wander along to the kitchens and see if Ada could possibly put him in touch with the housekeeper so that he could ask her to launder it for him.

~~*~~

It really was a lovely old house, Aziraphale decided as he wandered the empty, but brightly-lit corridors. Old, and full of interesting nooks and crannies, obviously bursting with tales and memories, but warm and comfortable and decorated most tastefully. Aziraphale took his time, perusing paintings on the walls, studying vases and statues he wandered past, admiring the stained glass in some of the windows along in the stairwell. It would be lovely, he decided, to have somewhere like this to live in, somewhere just seeping in its own history.

He was surprised when he finally reached the little white door that led to the kitchens, he’d been so engrossed in looking around him that he hadn’t realised how far he’d walked. With a quick look up and down the silent corridor, he lifted the latch and let himself in. As the door swung shut behind him, it took all the light with it and the angel was decidedly disorientated in the sudden darkness. He stuttered to a halt, wishing he had Crowley’s perfect night vision, and flattened himself against the cold, stone of the wall, feeling the smooth granite under his finger tips as his own breathing suddenly sounded ridiculously loud in his ears.

Thinking back to when Briggs had brough them this way, Aziraphale couldn’t remember it being so dark, but then, he reasoned, it could be that the Butler had simply known where the light switch was – Aziraphale had been the third of their party to enter after all. He pressed his back into the stone, irritated by the creeping dread he felt along his spine, knowing it was just a very natural reaction to having had his sight stolen from him, but unable to purge it anyway. He took a deep breath, ready to start looking for the light switch with his fingers, when a distant noise stopped him.

He halted his breathing, forced even his heart to stop beating in his chest and strained his ears to listen. The creeping dread in his spine had transformed into icy sweat that trickled down his vertebrae and Crowley’s warning to stay in his room suddenly took on a far more sinister meaning. He forced the panic to stay away though, stretched his hearing as far as he could and waited, pressed to the wall, invisible in the cloying darkness.

He didn’t have to wait long. Barely a minute had passed before the indistinct noises turned into the shuffling of feet, more than two feet, with the undertone of murmured voices. Aziraphale stayed where he was, frozen against the wall as the footsteps came closer, only just thinking to cloak himself in invisibility as the sound of a switch being thrown echoed through the tunnel and, one by one, electric lightbulbs leapt into life. For a moment, Aziraphale was blinded by the sudden brightness, but another hasty miracle set his human-eyes back to day-mode, just in time to see the owners of the feet and the voices as they rounded the slight bend at the far end of the reaching corridor.

Initially, relief surged through the angel’s corporation as he saw Briggs and Ada standing there. He restarted his breathing and his circulation and was just about to announce his presence, when something niggled at him to stay hidden for the moment, something about the way that Briggs and Ada were standing, their very close proximity, the anxiety in both of their forms. Instead, he remained perfectly still, perfectly steady and just listened.

“I keep telling you, Robbie, it will be okay!”

Briggs’ sigh was long and frustrated. “How will it be okay? It was never going to be okay from the moment he saw us here.” He waved his arms around him. “You heard his terms. We either do what he says, or we’re both out of a job! Laid off without references! How can that be okay, Ada? I have bills to pay! Parents to support! What else can I do which will let me stay close to them? Help them? I’m not putting them into a home!”

“I know you’re not, and you won’t have to. This is what I am saying. All we have to do is wait-”

“Wait?” There was so much anger and pain in that single word. “ _Wait_? Ada, what do we have to wait for? _Nothing is going to get better_. We do as he says, or we’re ruined – as far as I can see, there is no choice.”

“Of course there is a choice! There is always a choice! Are we going to let him bully us like this?” Ada’s tone, her robust belief that there was always going to be a way out reminded him of another being, another argument.

“You heard him, Ada,” But Briggs, it seemed, was not going to be shifted. “We signed contracts, we _read_ the contracts, we knew that relationships between staff members would not be tolerated – that’s why we were sneaking around behind his back, for goodness sake!”

As Aziraphale watched, Ada blew out a frustrated breath and folded her arms. “But it’s a stupid rule,” she hissed.

“It’s _his_ rule though.”

“And I have told you, I’m sorting it.”

Briggs shook his head, Aziraphale watched as he drew himself up a little higher, watched as Ada’s lips pressed together a little harder – she knew what was coming. “And I have told you that I will not let you. I will not let you risk your reputation, your good name, your livelihood, your home, everything you have worked so hard to build up – for me.”

“Maybe I want to.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

A chill seemed to settle into the very stones around them, another bead of sweat ran down Aziraphale’s back.

“So, what are you saying?” Ada’s voice was cold and thick.

“Ada… you know I love you. You _know_ that.”

“ _But what are you saying?_ ”

The silence was choked.

“Robbie,” as was Ada’s reply. “We are a _team_. We’ve always been a team. You and me. Against it all.”

There was an indrawn breath, one that shook with the emotion within. “Ada. We _can’t_. We just… can’t…”

Silence seeped along the corridor; a cold, insidious silence and then, “Right… Well then.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, his chest clenching in agony.

Hurried footsteps fled away from him, in the distance, the door to the kitchen open, and slammed.

There was a long, painful silence and then more footsteps, steady, sedate ones, followed the first.

Aziraphale stood, silent and dark, for a long time.

~~*~~


	6. "Where the fucking fuck, have you been?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The suspects just keep on queuing up - and Crowley seems to have things on his mind...

~~*~~

The walk back to the rooms lacked any of the delighted effervescence of the trip down. Aziraphale trailed along the plush carpets, his shirt gripped in his fingers, his heart heavy with more than just Ada and Brigg’s heartbreak.

Not for the first time, Aziraphale juddered at the realisation that, despite heading off the end of the world, despite staring down their employers and freeing themselves from their own chains of contract, despite six thousand years of creeping forward millimetre by ridiculous millimetre, he and Crowley were still dancing around each other from different ends of the dancefloor. Different ends of the ballroom. Different ends of the damn hotel. How could it all be so ambiguous? How could Crowley still be such an enigma to him? How could he still never know what to do _right_? What to do to close the pervasive distance between them. Did people look at him and Crowley and see what he had seen with Briggs and Ada? Surely, being together was the most important part of their entire existence?

“Aziraphale!” the furious hiss startled him from his musings as he drew up to the doors of their rooms and there was Crowley, stalking along the corridor towards him, every line of his familiar body riven with obvious agitation. “Where the fucking _fuck_ , have you been? _What did I tell you to do whist I was out_?”

Frustration and familiar heartbreak welled up inside him, heaving against his usual tolerance for Crowley’s dramatics; he knew he was in no mood for this. “Crowley…” he turned away, fumbling with his door handle, his fingers uncharacteristically uncooperative, a tight grief clawing up his throat.

“ _What_ did I tell you?!” A hand closed on his shoulder, tight enough to leave a bruise for every fingertip, and he was abruptly spun around, his back slamming into the wall, the door frame painfully jarring an elbow, Crowley’s furious face pressed into his, all barred teeth and flared nostrils and Aziraphale knew that, behind those infernal glasses, his eyes would be fully yellow and searing with anger.

Aziraphale wasn’t scared, Crowley had never, not once, ever frightened him, but still, something inside suddenly snapped and he felt an alien heat surge up inside him, swirling and stuttering and threatening to obliterate them both but before it had chance to break free, Crowley drew back, the lines on his forehead washing out from furiously tight to startlingly arched. “Angel…” the anger was gone, replaced by something that ached a little too much like fear, “What’s _happened_?”

And that was too much, all of that care and concern and Aziraphale exploded, shoving Crowley away so forcefully that he clattered into the wall behind them and then turning, fleeing into the solitude of his room, locking the door behind him, rushing across the carpet and standing, chest heaving, fists clenched, staring out of the window into the thick black of the night garden.

The locked door didn’t stop Crowley for long, not that Aziraphale ever imagined it would, but it was long enough for him to harness his control once more, to regret the use of force on the single being who had never, not _ever_ , used force to harm him, to unclench his jaw, and to wish his heart was as easy to unclench. He heard the lock snick open and he glanced up, watching through the reflection in the window as Crowley slid inside, surreptitiously rubbing at his sternum in a manner that prickled Aziraphale’s guilt, slipping off his glasses, carefully placing them next to the leftover Afternoon Tea and taking a hesitant step forwards – Aziraphale could almost taste his fear.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. “It’s alright, dear.”

He heard Crowley step closer. “Is it?”

Was it? Well, of course it was. They were here, they were together, they were free – did it matter that they weren’t everything that Aziraphale wanted them to be? That, ever since the day the world hadn’t ended, Crowley had stepped back? Stopped even _trying_ to get Aziraphale to be more to him? No. It couldn’t matter because he wouldn’t let it. They had more now than he had ever thought they would before. That _had_ to be enough. 

“Angel…”

He hated that fear on Crowley.

“Of course it is.” It _was_. “I just…” he let out a long sigh, “It’s just I’m afraid I have another candidate, possibly two, for our list of people with a strong motive to murder Grainger, that’s all.”

Silence greeted his words for a moment, and then Crowley was on the move again, “Here,” his voice was pitched in that manner that Aziraphale knew he was the only being in the history of creation to ever hear. “Come and sit down next to the fire. You want some more tea? Something stronger?”

“Something stronger,” Aziraphale agreed, allowing Crowley’s voice to reel him across the room and sit him in the chair he had made his own. He stared into the newly invigorated flames then looked up, watching, blank-faced, as Crowley poured Scotch from the decanter on the side into a glass, adding ice from the perpetually frozen ice-bucket, preparing one for himself at the same time, before handing Aziraphale’s over and slipping onto the edge of the sofa himself, perching there uncomfortably, his serpentine eyes wide and worried and fixed the angel’s way.

They sat there, together, but just as equally apart as they sipped and Aziraphale slowly watched the trembling of Crowley’s fingers still into nothing.

“Angel,” the instruction was inevitable, “tell me what happened.”

So, Aziraphale did.

~~*~~

As soon as he was done, Crowley rose to his feet and poured them both another healthy measure of Scotch, refusing eye-contact as he passed the glass over, but letting their fingers brush together in a way that would have been unthinkable even one hundred years ago. He sat down again, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his remarkable eyes on the dancing flames and Aziraphale waited for him to speak.

He didn’t have to wait long, a couple of significant swallows of whisky and then, “So you think that Ada is going to do away with Grainger just so that she and Briggs can carry on fucking each other?”

Aziraphale winced slightly, but really, what else was Crowley going to do? Of course he was going to dress this very human tragedy up in lust and smut, and pointedly ignore any similarity to them and their situation. The coward in Aziraphale was glad. He let out a breath and took his own swallow, swirling the remaining liquid over the ice as an excuse not to try and catch Crowley’s eyes. “It’s a possibility,” he conceded quietly, “You were the one who stated that love was a powerful motivator.”

Crowley thought about that, Aziraphale watched him stare into the fire as he obviously sifted through it all before finally shrugging, clinking his ice against the side of his glass as he offered, “Yeah, but Briggs isn’t interested, is he? He told her. So why would she put herself on the line like that without chance of reciprocation?”

Pain flared in Aziraphale’s chest once more. He needed a long swallow of whisky to find some words, and even then, they needed coaxing from his mouth. “Well, I hardly think that Mr. Briggs isn’t interested, my dear. It’s just – well, he has _commitments_ , to his family. Loyalties and family ties and people who are relying on him. It’s not that simple, is it? He can’t throw it all away on a whim, you know!”

“A whim?” the word was ejected more than spoken and Crowley unfolded himself from his seat as he spoke. “Of course you’d see it like that, angel, wouldn’t you?” He crossed to the connecting room and Aziraphale knew that this meant that the conversation was over – until the next time of course, the next argument, the next thinly veiled insult. “Can’t see you being the ‘crime of passion’ type either, funnily enough. You and Briggs have a lot in common.”

“Maybe we’re both scared!” the words burst from Aziraphale’s lips as he rose to his feet and Crowley stopped, right in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other clenched at his side, his shoulders rigid under his jacket.

The room slid into silence, just as thick and just as cold as the one that Ada and Briggs had lived through. Then, Aziraphale watched as Crowley seemed to deflate, the fingers on the door frame gripping more tightly, even as the hand at his side loosened. He let out a long sigh and spoke to his own room. “Don’t go wandering around the house on your own,” he said tiredly, “I told you that. I’m going for a shower; will you be ready in about fifteen minutes?”

“Of course,” sometimes, Aziraphale hated that coward inside him.

He turned away as the door firmly closed, a method of communication all on its own, and only then did he notice that the stain on his shirt had gone.

~~*~~

He was ready long before the knock came on the adjoining door and was composed enough not to stare at Crowley as he slithered in, impeccably turned out in a beautifully fitted suit, slate-grey shirt, charcoal tie and another pair of sunglasses to hide behind.

“You ready?” even with the shades on, Crowley still seemed determined to not make eye-contact.

“Of course.”

They walked down to the dining room in silence. The last to arrive, there were only two seats left at the imposing table and Crowley stopped in the doorway, almost making Aziraphale run into the back of him and, as Aziraphale drew to a sudden halt, he saw Crowley’s shoulders tense once more as he took everything in.

“At last!” Grainger’s irate voice rose above the general polite hubbub of the room. “We were about to start without you. ‘Fashionably late’ isn’t a thing up here, you know.” Crowley’s head swung slowly Grainger’s way. “Come on, hurry up and sit down. Crowley, you’re here, next to me, Fell, you’re down there.”

Leaning around Crowley’s rigid form, Aziraphale saw the two seats being indicated. One, near the head of the table, was between Grainger and his daughter, Annabel, the other, further along the same side, was between Karalina Bridgewater and Fabio Trentini; Crowley, meanwhile, was like a statue, rigid in front of him.

“It’s okay, dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was pitched too low for any of the human’s ears. Cautiously, he pressed his fingers into the small of Crowley’s back and pushed out the tiniest bit of soothing grace. “It’s only dinner.” Crowley didn’t reply, he didn’t move a muscle but, aware of the increasing stares, Aziraphale brushed past him, making his way towards the empty seat, smiling welcomes at the guests who made eye contact with him and fervently hoping that Crowley did not see the effervescent smile James Shepherd sent his way. He slid into his seat, nodding a polite welcome at a stony-faced Fabio, who promptly turned away to converse with Elsie at his side, and trying to catch the eye of Karalina, who seemed to be transfixed in stroking one perfectly gelled sparkling fingernail.

“Crowley! Come on, man! The soup will be going cold.” Grainger’s voice sounded again, and Aziraphale looked back, his stomach twisting at the unmistakable edge of fear he could read in Crowley’s oh-so-familiar face. He had no idea what in Heaven had got his dear demon so spooked, but it was very, very unlike him. For a moment they stared at each other across the room and Aziraphale did his best to send reassurance out across the room, and at that, abruptly, Crowley turned, stalking across the room and dragging the chair out in a manner that suggested he might like to do the same to Grainger, before arranging his limbs in an artfully disinterested pose as Briggs and his team of servers descended with the soup course.

It was very nice, as all of Ada’s fayre was. Leek and potato, with a splash of something parsley-ish in the centre. Aziraphale marvelled at the professionalism of Ada that she could get something so delicious turned out on time, and that Briggs could serve it so stoically, after their dreadfully distressing conversation in the servant’s corridors earlier. The fact that it was for Grainger’s benefit as well, the very man who was determined to ruin their happiness... well, he conceded, humans were wonderful creatures.

He risked the odd glance Crowley’s way as they ate and was pleased to see that he had come down a little from his earlier edge. He was doing a reasonable job of pretending to eat his soup and, from the way that Aziraphale’s was only slowly going down, seemed to be miracling it all his way instead. He was also talking in an outwardly relaxed manner with Grainger and the haughty-looking Annabel, both of whom seemed to have forgiven him over his earlier ‘failure’ with the knife-in-the-painting.

As for Aziraphale himself, well, he’d probably had worse company for dinner, but he’d also, certainly, had better. Fabio had shifted himself in his seat in such a way that Aziraphale found himself presented with a shoulder every time he tried to make polite conversation, and Karalina seemed to be doing her very best to ignore his complete existence at her side. It was though, as he had said, only dinner, and he was already looking forward to getting Crowley back to their rooms and seeing if he could start to work out what had wound his friend so tightly.

The soup bowls were removed, and Aziraphale smiled even more warmly than usual Briggs’ way when he leaned in with his impeccably snowy-white gloves. He spent a moment running his eyes around the table, from Fabio, to Elsie, Gloria, Geraint, James, answering his friendly nod with one of his own, wishing they were sitting close enough to converse, then there was the ever-patient Helen, Pratik, Samuel and Rebecca Grainger, Grainger himself, Crowley, again, who was laughing at one of his own stories, Annabel and Jeremy, and finally, Niles and Karalina Bridgewater. The full crew assembled. It was sobering to think that someone here (or in the kitchen beneath them) wanted Grainger dead enough to actually try and do something about it…

The doors to the dining room opened again at that, and Aziraphale’s troubling thoughts were eclipsed by the wonderful smells that drifted in ahead of Briggs and his team. “Slow cooked roast lamb,” Grainger announced, as if he were, somehow, personally responsible for it, “with rosemary potatoes and Mrs Richardson’s famous gravy. You’ll love it.”

There was a murmur of appreciation running around the seated diners, and Aziraphale felt his mouth watering at the thought but, at his side, it seemed that Karalina was finding it harder to get into the same frame of mind, looking up, with a frown on her face, as Briggs approached with her plate. “Not for me,” it was the first time that Aziraphale had heard her speak and the softness of her delivery surprised him. “I’m gluten-free.” 

“Yes, madam,” Briggs, however, was not to be put off, “the Cook had been told that, and she said to tell you that she has adapted her recipes to make them suitable for you. Everyone is eating gluten-free tonight.”

It was one of those exchanges that made Aziraphale remember, again, how wonderful humans were. Ada’s thoughtfulness, Briggs’ gentle delivery, and, more than anything, the stunned look on Karalina’s face as she realised how much consideration she had been afforded – consideration, Aziraphale realised, that she was obviously un-used to receiving. Suddenly, her steadfastly ignoring him shone in a completely different light.

“Ah, thank you, my dear,” Aziraphale felt himself beaming as his own plate was set in front of him, a plate which, undoubtedly contained more food than Fabio’s next door. He took a breath then, as Briggs withdrew once more, and turned to Karalina who was smoothing her napkin over her knee. “Can I just say,” she turned to him at that, apprehension in her expression, “how much I love the colour of your dress! It really is the most striking shade of emerald.”

For a moment. Karalina just stared at him, her incredible almond-shaped eyes distrustful, Aziraphale couldn’t help but push a tiny bit of grace her way and watched as her shoulders dropped a good inch and her expression softened just a hint. “Thank you,” she did seem genuinely appreciative. “It’s one of my favourites.”

Aziraphale beamed at her, and then they were off.

~~*~~

The meal was delicious. The lamb had been perfect and, again, Crowley must have been siphoning some of his Aziraphale’s way as the plate had taken a lot of eating through. Dessert had been a dark chocolate roulade, dotted with raspberries, and there had been coffee and home-made truffles afterwards. Aziraphale and Karalina had chatted throughout the meal, each of them ignored by the companion to their other sides. As the meal drew to a halt, the double doors to the drawing room opened and Grainger moved through to sit around the fire, a few guests, Crowley and Niles included, followed him and Aziraphale noted how his new companion seemed to relax even further once her husband was away from her side. Taking a sip of his coffee, Aziraphale carefully drew a breath and, nodding at Niles, commented, “Not particularly chatty tonight, is he?”

Thankfully, Karalina laughed. “He’s never particularly chatty with me, not anymore. I don’t believe it was my conversational abilities he married me for.”

Aziraphale frowned, “His loss. And yet – here you are?”

All traces of joviality left Karalina’s expression at that, and she was back to stroking her fingernails. “Yes. And I believe that _that_ may have been a mistake.”

“Yes?” everyone else had filed through to the drawing room where laughter and conversation drifted back through the double doors along with the unmistakable scent of expensive scotch. Aziraphale smiled to himself, he could see Crowley, just there, sitting in the corner of one of the tartan sofas, drink in his hand, easy smile on his face as he chatted with Gloria and Geraint, safe and content and accessible if he was needed and Aziraphale himself was happy in the dining room still, as seemed Karalina, and he shuffled in his seat, catching her eye with his, “So, why did you, then?”

She thought for a minute, and Aziraphale took a moment to admire her natural beauty, the symmetry of her face, the flawless complexion. She was obviously wearing the minimum of makeup and Aziraphale knew that she was simply one of those lucky individuals who were just blessed with attractiveness – or cursed, he supposed. It depended on the outlook.

“You’ll think me a fool,” she answered quietly.

“Try me.”

She laughed at that, the type of laugh he often heard from Crowley, a little bit sad, a little bit bitter and a whole lot self-depreciative, all dressed up in an attempt at levity – it was actually quite tragic. “Well… you know, big house in the country, open fires, tartan rugs, four poster beds, cosy evenings…. Romantic,” she shrugged, “Maybe I thought that he would fall back in love with me.”

Their eyes drifted over to where Niles was standing near the drawing room fire, laughing with Fabio and Pratik, his jacket long discarded, his shirt stretched over wide shoulders, his teeth flashing white as he threw his head back and laughed. What an interesting thought – Aziraphale had never considered the potential for romance of this venue.

“You would want that?” he asked her softly, bringing himself back into the moment “Do you still love him?”

She thought about that as she chased grains of sugar across the tablecloth with the tip of her glittery nail. “Possibly not,” she conceded in a whisper. “But it would be nice, I thought, to love, to _be_ loved. You know?”

“I do,” Aziraphale covered her hand with his, refusing to let his eyes drift across the room to Crowley. “But that needs to be the right person, my dear,” he squeezed her fingers. “Chasing after the wrong one leads to nothing but heart-ache,” he swallowed around the tightness in his own throat at that and Karalina looked up and smiled at him.

“You’re very wise,” she told him. “I should have you on my staff.”

Aziraphale laughed, “I’d never be on your staff, my dear,” he told her, “but I will always be your friend.”

There was a crash then, from the other room, followed by a few muted gasps and they both looked up just in time to see the unfortunate Helen pushing herself up from the edge of the table where she had stumbled, sending drinks and trinkets clattering to the floor. “For God’s sake, woman!” Grainger’s voice boomed out through the resulting melee. “Be careful! How much have you had to drink?!”

James had jumped to his feet and was helping Helen to straighten up, “Are you hurt?” he asked her gently.

“Huh!” Grainger’s caustic reaction tugged at the edges of Aziraphale’s anger. “It’s the broken glasses you could be asking that to,” he boomed. “That was 37-year-old Glenlivet as well!”

“Nothing is broken, daddy,” Annabel was clearing the detritus from around the table. “Look! Not a single glass. And your precious whisky is fine.”

Grainger frowned, no doubt wondering where the sound of breaking glass had come from and Aziraphale watched as Crowley took a silent sip of his own drink, the tips of his ears just the slightest shade of red.

Helen was helped to a seat in between Elsie and Annabel who happily fussed her, and she was presented with another drink by a smiling James and the hub of conversation started up again, just as Karalina leaned a little closer to Aziraphale and whispered, “I really don’t like that man,” surreptitiously into his ear.

“James?” Aziraphale was astounded and his companion laughed.

“No! David Grainger. I really don’t like him.”

“Hmmm,” Aziraphale tried to be as non-committal as possible, but it would be a lie to say that he wasn’t intrigued. “Why is that, then?” so of course he was going to ask.

Karalina winced, “It’s actually kind of creepy,” she told him quietly and Aziraphale’s stomach twisted.

“In what way?”

“Well,” he watched as Karalina adjusted her posture ever so slightly, shifting a few millimetres closer to Aziraphale on her chair and wrapping her long arms around her torso. “You know there’s a swimming pool here? Around the back? Over-looking the gardens?”

Aziraphale nodded, he’d seen the glass lean-to, had thought it was a greenhouse which would have hugely appealed to Crowley and was disappointed to find the pool glinting away to itself inside.

“Well, I was swimming yesterday morning, just doing a few lengths and then,” she shuffled that tiny bit closer again, “I noticed Grainger watching me, from the circular window on the floor above.”

There was a pause as Aziraphale considered that. “Maybe he was just passing by?” he knew that it was his very nature that meant he always had to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

“Well, I thought that too,” Karalina was back to poking at the stray grains of sugar, “and when he saw me, he moved on, but then, the next time I looked, he was back! And he was filming me, on his phone, I was sure of it.”

That was reprehensible and Aziraphale found his own distaste for the man tripling. “Oh, my dear,” he leaned in to meet Karalina’s eyes, “Are you alright?”

They were brighter than usual, but she was smiling, and her back was straight. “I suppose I should be used to it by now,” she told him, “doing the job that I do. But – well, I’m not, to be honest, and it would be nice to redress the balance a little, you know?”

Aziraphale just looked at her, his mind skipping ahead and not really liking where it was ending up.

Karalina must have seen his perturbance and smiled, this time reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, winking one of her perfectly shaped eyes at him, “I have something I’m working on…”

~~*~~

The walk back to the rooms was far less tense than the walk down. Crowley seemed relaxed, full of smiles and easy gestures which fed directly into Aziraphale’s own sense of repose. He talked the whole way back, about the food and the drink and the conversation and Crowley’s little trick with the spilt drinks and managed to keep the whole worrying conversation with Karalina until they had arrived back in their rooms are were sat around Aziraphale’s fire with a nightcap each and a crackling fire. Romantic, Karalina had called it.

“So, what do you think?” he asked as Crowley thought over his information. “How did you read her? You think she’s capable of murder?”

“Anyone is capable of murder, angel, given the right motivation. I think we’ve covered that already.”

Aziraphale hummed at that, his eyes drifting back and forth across the list in his notebook. “We don’t seem to be making much headway against this list.”

“We don’t,” Crowley sighed and leaned back in his seat, kicking his socks up towards the fire. “And it’s worse than that.”

“Worse?”

Crowley nodded, his eyes obviously tired, his expression pinched. “Someone tried to poison him tonight.”  
  
Aziraphale blinked. “ _Poison_ him? _Grainger?_ ”

“Hmm-mm. Hemlock, in his wine.”

The moment of stunned silence pulled out as Aziraphale stared and Crowley, unblinkingly, held his gaze. “ _When_? Does he know?”

“Before we ate. And Grainger?” Aziraphale nodded, “Yeah, _he_ told _me_.”

“ _He_ told you?”

Crowley nodded again. “Yep. Thought his wine smelt off, asked me what I thought.”

“And what _did_ you think?”

“Hemlock. Like I said. Undoubtedly.”

Blowing out a long breath, Aziraphale leaned back against the cushions of his chair, his mind replaying the entire evening, looking for something, _anything_ , that struck him as out of the ordinary, but he kept coming up blank until, “So, he knew?” Crowley nodded. “At the _start_ of the night?” Another nod. “But, yet again, he hardly looked like he was particularly perturbed!”

“He didn’t, did he?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“No.”

“And he’s just gone to bed? After a night when someone could have stabbed him and an evening when they tried to poison him?”

Crowley rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I offered to sit in his rooms. He said he has a gun and no scruples. I actually think he’s hoping that he _will_ get to shoot whoever this is.”

Aziraphale was appalled. “My dear…”

“I know.”

They slid into silence, Aziraphale watching as Crowley’s eyes kept drifting shut and then snapping open again. Finally, he shook his head and pushed to his feet. “Crowley, you look exhausted,” he held out a hand and Crowley blinked at him with red-rimmed eyes.

“Mmm?”

“Come on,” Aziraphale shook his hand in Crowley’s direction. “Bed. You need some proper rest. Goodness only knows what we’ll have to deal with in the morning.”

Reaching out, Crowley’s long fingers curled around Aziraphale’s and, with a tug, they were standing in front of the fire, chest to chest once more. Romantic… Karalina’s words spun through Aziraphale’s head and, self-consciously, he shifted back a little. Crowley disengaged their fingers and started to head back into his own room, his steps slow and sluggish. “Wake me before breakfast?” he asked as he shuffled away. “Don’t go down without me, yeah?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale sat in his chair once more, making sure he could see Crowley’s bed, and picked up his notebook, feeling the shimmer of a miracle as Crowley changed into his bedclothes before climbing in underneath the duvet. “Sleep well, my dear.” A muted mumble was his reply and he watched, as surreptitiously as possible over the top of his notebook, as Crowley shifted around in the bed, hitching further down until only the top of his head was visible before settling, still and silent.

Aziraphale was waiting for his breathing to slow, for all that perpetual movement to leave his frame but, abruptly, he was shuffling again, pushing up onto an elbow as he viciously plumped his pillow then settling down once more. This time, it lasted barely a handful of seconds before he was up again, switching sides so he was facing the centre of the bed, then shifting again to kick one long leg out from under the duvet.

Again, Aziraphale watched as it all went quiet, and then in another shift, an arm snaked out and hooked around a spare pillow, hauling it back under the duvet, shuffling and wriggling until it was in a position he was content with. He pressed his head back until the pillow, burrowing back and forth until he’d made a dent for his head then, just as Aziraphale was expecting him to finally settle for the night, he opened his eyes once more, zeroing directly in on the angel across the rooms, the angel who, very quickly, diverted his gaze into the pages of his notebook once more.

“G’night angel.”

It was muffled by the duvet and undoubtedly sleepy, but there nonetheless and it granted, Aziraphale felt, permission for him to look over once more. “Goodnight, dearest.” He flushed a little, at the accidental endearment, but Crowley was already slipping away, his eyelashes fanning out across his cheeks, his breath slowing and lightening and, as Aziraphale watched, he drifted away into sleep.

Notebook quite forgotten, Aziraphale sat and watched him.

~~*~~ 


	7. "I am not the type of angel to abandon six thousand years of friendship."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another move is made, and both of our heroes are starting to feel increasingly out of their depth.

~~*~~

Guests had been told that breakfast would be served in the sunroom until ten a.m. every morning, and Aziraphale had decided that he would wait until nine forty to wake Crowley, make sure that he had as much sleep as he possibly could. It was only a little after seven, however, when Crowley all but exploded out from under the covers and gazed about the room with wide, frantic eyes until he alighted on Aziraphale, still in his chair by the fire. For a moment, their eyes met and then Crowley flopped back onto the mattress, his breathing audible, right across the room, and, placing his book carefully on the arm of his chair, Aziraphale pushed up to his feet. His shoes made no noise at all on the thick carpet and, in a moment, he was hovering at the side of Crowley’s bed for the briefest of thoughts before seating himself at the demon’s hip and allowing his fingers to drift over Crowley’s long ones. “Good morning, dear,” he offered gently. “Did you sleep well?”

Crowley was sprawled, boneless, on his back, duvet draped across his navel, his free arm up and bent over his eyes; the fingers of the hand underneath Aziraphale’s appeared to be trembling. He took a long breath in, Aziraphale noticed the way it shook a little, and held it, letting it out long and slow before shifting his arm and blinking the angel’s way. “Yeah,” his voice was rough. “Just thought I might have overslept. You know?”

Aziraphale did know, Crowley could oversleep like no other being in existence, but somehow, he knew that that was not what the panic in his eyes had been about. Really, it was most odd. Yes, Crowley was not immune to fear, of course he wasn’t, he wasn’t insane after all, but he also tended to be both pragmatic and optimistic, not one to be easily swept up in terror for something that Aziraphale couldn’t even _see_. It was worrying in more ways than one, and maybe it was time that the angel stopped letting Crowley pretend that it was nothing.

“Crowley,” his fingers twitched, ever so slightly against the back of Crowley’s hand, wanting to wrap those long fingers up in his, wanting to hold Crowley to him, comfort him, keep him, be everything he possibly could for him. “I have noticed, my dear, that you haven’t really seemed-” he stopped, the words ripped from his throat as the hand under his was ripped from his touch. It was the space of a blink, that was all, and Crowley was gone from the bed, materialising almost instantly on the carpet across the room from Aziraphale, his pyjamas swapped for the usual black jacket, jeans and boots, his hair styled, his glasses firmly pressed onto the bridge of his nose.

“No time,” his voice was brisk. “Grainger gets up around now. I wanted to check what’s happened over night. Wanted to make sure everything was okay.” He started to head for the door, “You can come with me if you like.”

Aziraphale stared at the empty bed at his side, he could almost feel the latent heat leeching off it, vying with the heat of irritation and hurt that spiked in his chest. Crowley had already gone though, sashaying out into the corridor like he hadn’t a care in the world. Swallowing at all down, Aziraphale followed him, not missing the way that Crowley saw him coming, the way his shoulders dropped in what could have been relief that he wasn’t leaving the angel behind. Aziraphale sighed; something was undoubtedly niggling away at Crowley’s peace of mind and Aziraphale was not going to rest until he found out what it was.

They didn’t speak as they traversed the silent, early morning corridors to Grainger’s rooms. Aziraphale walked a step behind Crowley, cataloguing every twitch and every taut line that just emphasised how tense he was. It was alien – and it was worrying.

In deference to the early hour, they stopped in the corridors and rapped, lightly, on the door which led to the apartments inside, waiting for barely a minute before the door swung open and Helen smiled, tight lipped, at them. “Morning,” her voice, as it always did, quivered like a reed in the wind and she stepped back to let them in. “David is just finishing getting dressed. Would you mind waiting out here?”

They had no time at all to answer before Grainger’s familiar boom sounded from the room next door, “Oh don’t be pathetic, woman, it’s hardly like I’m naked in here. Let them in, I want to know if DI Hardy has finally come up with something useful for all the money I’m paying him.”

Crowley didn’t respond to that, as Helen waved them towards the bedroom, but Aziraphale had seen the way that the lines around his eyes had tightened at the dig.

Grainger was sitting on the edge of the bed when they walked in, the sling from the ceiling hoist system holding him upright, one sock on and one sock off, but otherwise fully dressed. There was a hint of steam and deodorant around the place which indicated what Grainger and Helen had been doing before their visitors arrived.

“Well?” Grainger snapped as Crowley arranged himself against the window frame and Aziraphale forced his mind back into the conversation they were here for.

“Well, what?” Crowley was good at hiding himself when he needed to, although he could never quite manage it with Aziraphale. “I’m here to see how you are, see if anything else has happened over night.”  
  
“No,” Grainger dropped his eyes to Helen who was knelt on the floor at his feet, pulling his second sock into place. “No one snuck in and slaughtered me as I slept, if that’s what you meant.”  
  
Crowley folded his arms. “I did offer to spend the night here. You were the one who wanted an excuse to blow someone’s head off.”

Aziraphale’s chest tightened, but Grainger simply laughed. “Maybe I did. You going to deny a dying man a bit of fun?”

There was no answer from Crowley’s corner of the room.

“Ow! Not too tight, woman!” Helen was now lacing up the first of Grainger’s shoes and she silently ducked her head at his sharp rebuttal. “That’s a no then, is it, Mr. Crowley?” Grainger was certainly skilled in switching targets when he was in the mood to bully but still, Crowley’s long form didn’t flicker.

“It’s a fluid situation,” as fluid as Crowley’s tone it seemed. “Myself and my associate are working on a number of leads right now.”

Aziraphale frowned, barely even noticing Crowley dragging him into the firing line; there was a strange smell in the room that was just poking gently against the edges of his consciousness, something a little bit… sterile, a little bit like… Heaven. His chest tightened again, sharper this time, and he reached out with his angelic senses, ‘seeing’ as far as he could, stretching his awareness, but no, there was nothing, only he and Crowley as far as he could feel. He sniffed again, maybe there was a hint of heat there too, almost _burnt_ , but not Hell, nothing of the cloying sulphur that always scraped at the back of his throat.

“Fell?”

The tone of that word jolted Aziraphale out of his thoughts and he surmised that it wasn’t the first time that his name had been called. He pulled himself up a little and returned Grainger’s glare with one as cool as he could manage. “Yes?”

He felt more than heard Crowley’s hastily suppressed snigger, but clearly caught Grainger’s dramatic eyeroll in its entirety. “Oh, forget it…” the tone was biting, “No wonder the pair of you haven’t got anywhere yet. Holmes and Watson? You’re far more Laurel and Hardy. Here, make yourself useful and pass that chair over, will you?”

He was indicating the wheelchair which was plugged into the wall and charging a couple of feet from Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale reached out, sniffing again, wondering if the smell was stronger now, wondering if it was more ozone-like than Heavenly, wondering if-

“Angel!” there was that tugging sense of difference he’d felt more than once before through the years, the tugging of time being forcibly stopped, and then long fingers were wrapped around his wrists, hard enough to hurt, hard enough tug him away from the waiting chair and – oh.

He looked up into Crowley’s glasses, could imagine the wide, panicked eyes that would be staring at him from behind the darkened lenses. For a collision of seconds they stared at each other and then, as one, their eyes slid down to the chair and Aziraphale blew out a shaky breath. “I thought I could smell something,” he whispered.

Crowley let go of him at that, shaking his head and dropping to his knees a respectable distance from the innocent-looking chair. “Fucking hell, angel,” there was a tremor in his voice that Aziraphale did not like. “You need to be more careful! There’re no more bodies for us, you know, no more chances. We discorporate and that’s it. No one is going to be letting us back up here again any time _ever_.”

“I know…” Aziraphale was fighting the urge to grab hold of Crowley and pull him close; the thought that Crowley would leave him, that he would be left all alone on earth whilst Crowley himself languished without a corporation in Hell’s dungeons, suffering an eternity of torture… it was enough to knock him sick.

“How could you not tell it was _live_?”

Crowley was staring at the chair, and live, it was, Aziraphale could tell now, but he’d been distracted by the strange smell and the threat of Heaven and Grainger’s biting words and… if he’d touched that chair, his body would have been destroyed for certain, but, of course, he was not the intended victim. “ _How_ is it possibly live?” he whispered instead as he dropped to his knees at Crowley’s side. “And what do we tell Grainger?” They stared in contemplation for a moment until Aziraphale spotted where the charging cord for the wheelchair had been stripped and laid against the bare metal of the frame, cautiously pointing it out to the demon at his side. “Deliberate,” he confirmed, as if either of them had had their doubts. “It would have killed him instantly.”

Crowley clicked his fingers and the wires mended themselves, the strange smell dissipating even as they pushed to their feet. “But it wouldn’t have been him, though, would it?” Crowley offered quietly. “If you hadn’t been here to do his bidding, it would have been her, wouldn’t it?” They turned to look at the frozen Helen, still on the floor at Grainger’s feet. “Look where the charging point is. There’s no way that Grainger could have got to that chair using his hoist. He needed someone to bring it to him.”

Aziraphale looked up and around him and it was true. The hoist Grainger had in his room ran on a single, fixed track, leading from the bed area into the en-suite and nowhere else. Once he was up and dressed for the day, he was reliant on the chair – he was even reliant on someone else to get it for him. He shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense, Crowley. None of this does. Someone knows him well enough to be able to creep in here and set all of this up, and yet they make a mistake like that! Sacrificing Helen in their botched attempts to get to Grainger!” He glanced, sideways at Crowley who was still staring at Helen’s bent head. “I feel like there’s something going on here I don’t know about…” he watched as the tips of Crowley’s ears turned red as he turned and made his way back to his spot in the window. “Crowley?”

Those blank glasses swung his way, “What?”

“Is there?” Aziraphale could feel his heart thumping against his chest. “Something going on?”

“With what?”

“With what?! With Grainger, of course! What else?” Why was Crowley so incredibly frustrating?

“No,” Crowley held his eye from across the room. “There is nothing else going on with Grainger.”

He was being honest. Aziraphale could tell that, and yet he still felt decidedly wrongfooted, but before he could say anything further, Crowley clicked his fingers once again and the world roared back to life around them.

~~*~~

The chair, made safe by the click of a demon’s fingers, wasn’t mentioned again. Crowley and Aziraphale watched as David was hoisted up off the bed and safely lowered into its waiting seat, Helen fastening him in before sliding the sling out from under him, and then they were ready for breakfast.

They sat and ate on a table for three, Helen scuttling off to get a few minutes peace somewhere whilst Briggs took over in meeting Grainger’s every whim. Something was not sitting right at the base of Aziraphale’s skull though, something was niggling at him and tainting his enjoyment of Ada’s kippers, and it seemed, from Crowley’s sour expression, that he wasn’t the only one.

“I think I should stay close to you today,” Crowley finally offered as Grainger pushed his toast plate away and Crowley stopped trying to pretend that he was eating his Eggs Royale. Aziraphale paused in his mouthful, surprised by both the offer and the thoughtful way that Grainger was nodding.

“Yes,” he met Crowley’s blank stare across the table. “Maybe you should. There’s only a few days of the celebration left, whoever it is who has got it in for me will surely make their decisive move very soon.”

“And I’ll be there to stop them.”

“We,” Aziraphale couldn’t help it, he couldn’t stop himself, there was something in the set of Crowley’s jaw that he didn’t like. 

“Absolutely,” Grainger seemed amused and nodded Aziraphale’s way before spying Samuel coming into the sunroom and helping himself to a glass of orange juice from the jug on the dresser. “Excuse me,” he was already putting his wheelchair into reverse, “I need a conversation with my son.”

Aziraphale watched him go, then watched Crowley watching him across the room and felt that sharp pain in his chest once more. A sharp pain that morphed into something more exquisitely painful when Crowley, eyes still on Grainger, murmured, “I think you should go back to London.”

There was a pause, as Aziraphale wondered if he had actually heard those words correctly, and then, just to be sure, he decided to check. “Pardon me?”

Briefly, Crowley glanced his way and then back to David. “You heard me. I think you should go back to London. You’re not needed here anymore.”

Aziraphale was stunned, there was no other way to describe it. He knew that his mouth had to be gaping like a fish and was, perversely, pleased that Crowley was still lavishing all of his attention on Grainger. “What? Crowley, no! How can I not be-” he shook his head and let some of his hurt strike back at the oblivious demon, “You invited me here in the first place!”

Finally, Crowley turned his way, pulling his glasses down so that he could look Aziraphale in the eye. “And now I am uninviting you,” his voice was steady. Cool. “I can’t spare any time to nanny you and watch out for Grainger at the same time.”

“ _Nanny_ me?” Aziraphale was having a hard time deciding if he were more outraged or offended. “You don’t have to nanny me, Crowley, I can look after myself!”

A single eyebrow arched in a perfectly cynical expression of surprise. “If I hadn’t stopped time, you’d be behind the Pearly Gates already,” his voice was low, designed not to carry. “And, quite frankly, I have enough on my plate without having to watch out for an oblivious angel who is too stupid not to walk into every blindingly obvious trap that appears before him. You’ll be tripping over your books and falling down the stairs to break your idiot neck next time, and I just don’t have it in me to run after you anymore. This isn’t 1793 and crepes, you know.”

Aziraphale just stared, his mouth open again, outrage and offence both fleeing in the face of the hurt that was radiating outwards from the left side of his chest. _Romantic…_ Karalina’s word looped through his head, kicking him a little harder with every rotation. How stupid could he be? How stupid had he been, and he knew that any stupidity he had been guilty of had nothing to do with electrified wheelchairs. However, there was, also, one more thing he was certain of; he looked around the room, made sure that they were quite on their own and then he leaned in, hissing a very determined, “I am not leaving you here alone, Crowley.” Crowley’s blink was reassuring. “You might have taken leave of your manners for the moment, but I am not the type of angel to abandon six thousand years of friendship, just because of a spat over a tiny lapse in concentration.”

“ _A tiny lapse in concentration_?” Crowley was suitably outraged.

“That’s right,” Aziraphale dabbed at his lips and pushed his chair back, rising smoothly to his feet. “You obviously have rather a lot of _feelings_ about the incident which you need to work through on your own. I, meanwhile, have a rather delightful book in my room which absolutely will not read itself. Good day to you, Crowley, and I hope that when I see you again later on, you may have recovered some of your usual humour.”

With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving a spitting and stupefied demon in his wake.

~~*~~ 

The book didn’t get read. It was opened, absolutely, and laid, invitingly, on Aziraphale’s knee, but it didn’t get read as his mind was far too full of Crowley and Grainger and chairs and fears and mysteries and – despite his best efforts – hurt.

The thing was, he _knew_ Crowley. He knew him very well, they had, after all, been friends for such a very long time. He knew that there were things that Crowley didn’t like, material things, like celery and Malibu, blue biros and Elton John, and then there were the immaterial things he didn’t like, and top of that list was having _feelings_.

He’d never quite worked it out, if he were to be honest with himself, whether it was the feelings himself that Crowley despised so, or if it was the vulnerability that having such the feelings wrought. Either way, he was an emotional creature – and it wasn’t something he enjoyed. So, what would happen when the dreaded feelings arose? When they surged far too powerfully for him to ignore and pretend that he was an empty, emotionless demon? Well, that was an easy one to answer: what did a snake do when it was cornered? It spat and it hissed and, if provoked enough, it would strike out at whatever was closest.

Often, Aziraphale was closest. The vast, _vast_ majority of the time, Aziraphale was closest. He knew that Crowley was striking at him through fear and poorly fashioned coping strategies, through confusion and more than a little self-loathing. He knew all of that: didn’t make it hurt any less though.

He sighed and trailed his fingers over the gilt edging of his book, wondering why, after all of these years, they couldn’t just be honest with each other. What was it about the two of them that meant, even though they had sacked the big brothers who had constantly shadowed them, they still couldn’t quite throw off the shackles, they still couldn’t quite find the right words to express what they actually meant for once. Say what they needed.

But then, Aziraphale’s hurt swirled and morphed into something a little more vicarious with the memories, the last time that Crowley had been honest, that awful day at the bandstand, how had Aziraphale responded? With more lies, more hurt, more hidden truths. To protect Crowley himself or course, it had always been about protecting Crowley, and Aziraphale knew, absolutely knew, that protecting _Aziraphale_ had been Crowley’s motivation at breakfast. Still didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt though.

Determinedly, Aziraphale set his book aside and picked up his notebook, turning to a fresh, clean double page. He needed to forget about his emotions, he needed to move on from that and look at the entire mess objectively. Crowley had rejected him because Crowley wanted him to leave (and there was that stubbornly painful tug behind his ribs once more). Crowley wanted him to leave because he felt that Aziraphale was in danger and he was trying (ham-fistedly) to protect him. If Aziraphale was in danger, then Crowley was in danger as well, would be in twice as much danger should Aziraphale abandon him and flee back to London. Ergo, Aziraphale would not, under any level of provocation from an increasingly cornered snake, do any such fleeing at all. Instead, he would firmly keep himself right here, right where he was needed, and he would try and work out just what it was that had up-scuttled his (mostly) scuttle-less demon.

He tapped the notebook with his pencil, his mind flickering backwards and forwards through the events of the last few days. The straw which had firmly broken Crowley’s back had undoubtedly been the wheelchair, and Aziraphale’s careless almost-discorporation. It was very true, the way things were now, if either of them were to end up back in their previous home bases in any manner at all, it was incredibly unlikely that they would ever set foot on Earth again. Crowley had long been of the opinion that nothing but the darkest pits of Hell and a constant round of torture would be awaiting him, and, since the Hell fire incident, Aziraphale was grudgingly of a mind to agree that his own fate would be similar. Not that it really mattered, however, as a life without Crowley would be a torture in itself.

So, Crowley had witnessed his almost-discorporation and panicked, wanting to send him away to keep him safe. But – there had to be more to it than that. Crowley may tease him from time to time, may joke about how useless he was, how dependent on his demon, but really, Aziraphale knew, without a hint doubt, that Crowley understood him to be more than capable of looking after himself. Most of the time. Lapses in concentration discarded. Which meant that whatever it was that he felt was threatening them here, then it was something _over_ the general possibility of a random discorporation, it was something that was a little more… targeted. A little more preternatural. Even more deadly. And really, was the dear boy so delusional that he thought that Aziraphale would leave him alone in such a predicament? He should know better by now, but he obviously did not. That was of no issue to Aziraphale, however. He had no intention of going anywhere without Crowley, and every intention of sorting this out and protecting them both. Determinedly, he gripped his pencil and stared at his blank notebook.

~~*~~

By the position of the sun, it must have been late in the afternoon when the grumbling of his stomach pulled his head from his notes. The page of his notebook was full. The preceding two pages as well. The problem was, however, that the pages and pages of thoughts were, essentially, to all intents and purposes, whichever way he looked at them – useless. Aziraphale was not a stupid angel, despite what some may have said over the years, and he knew that. He knew that he had worked out the entirety of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies in a matter of hours, he knew that he could read the most complicated texts on particle physics and they would make perfect sense to him, he had enjoyed lively debate with Einstein and Socrates and Goethe, he had dropped hints to Faraday and Pythagoras that would change the world – and yet – he couldn’t magic sense from a dearth of facts. There was plenty of speculation, plenty of possible schemes and motives but nothing that would explain away Crowley’s very real fears. Nothing.

He sat back in his seat, staring, sightlessly at the faint outline the sun was making through the sheen of mist as it sank below the fingers of treetops reaching to meet it. There was only one other thing that he could do. Time had taught them, over and over, that they were stronger together, that standing side by side, they were far more than the sum of their insignificant parts. He’d indulged Crowley for long enough – it was time for some answers.

Setting down his notebook, he rose to his feet and, with a sharp tug to his waistcoat, headed for the door.


	8. "Come inside, and bring that scotch with you.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clues and nastiness abound - and Crowley needs to be far more careful...

~~*~~

The house was quiet, the end of the afternoon drawing the guests in from the cold damp of the outdoors and towards the warmth of the fires and the glow of the lamps. Aziraphale could hear the gentle hubbub coming from the drawing room and thought for a moment of Ada’s scones and the neat little sandwiches cut into triangles; his stomach growled once more.

Pushing open the oaken double doors, Aziraphale was instantly hit by a selection of scents, none of them unpleasant to his sensitive angelic nose. There was woodsmoke from the fire, brandy, warming in a glass, freshly baked scones and thinly sliced smoked salmon and, above everything, permeating everything else, the unique warmth that was just Crowley. Pausing in the doorway, he scanned around, his eyes drifting across the group clustered near the fire, Grainger himself in the chair that had caused this latest round of unpleasantness, Pratik on the edge of the sofa at Grainger’s side, his face as blank as usual, his eyes as cold, Niles, his broad frame taking up far more of the sofa than it should. Across the hearth from them, Samuel Grainger, his arrogant pose mimicking that of his father, Fabio, his eyes crinkled in mirth as they met Aziraphale’s stare, his body a sinuous line of sin as it pressed, shoulder to knee to the figure next to him – and the figure next to him, of course, turning their head towards the doorway, the firelight flashing off their hair, a bowl of brandy cupped in their long fingers, their eyes hidden behind blank shades, their lips sliding into a cold smirk that tugged again at the tender patch in Aziraphale’s chest: Crowley.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley’s cheeks carried just the slightest flush to them as Fabio leant more fully against him, “How strange that you should appear just as the Afternoon Tea is served.”

Sniggers fluttered around the room, some most certainly from Fabio, as Aziraphale, a knife-like pain jabbing into his ribs, let his eyes drift to the spread set out across the dresser at the back of the room, noticing, for the first time, James Shephard standing like a deer in the headlamps, a plate in his hand, his eyes wide and wary.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale forced his eyes to turn back to the snake on the sofa. “And how kind of you to work so hard at ensuring Mr. Grainger’s brandy gets drunk at such an early hour of the day.” So much for having a heart to heart. “How much of that have you had so far?”

Crowley smiled at him, a brittle smile that was far from his usual fond, but before he could answer Grainger was there, his own voice loud and supercilious and enough to raise the hair on the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Fell, it’s good timing, actually. We’re planning a game of cards and could do with another player, Shepherd over there doesn’t have the balls to join us.”

“I don’t play,” James interjected loudly, “I told you that.”

“And we said that we’d teach you,” this was Pratik, his voice as emotionless as his expression. “If you weren’t too scared.”

Aziraphale shuddered and bolstered himself to intervene, James’ distress washing over him from the other side of the room, “I play-” but he was cut short by Crowley’s biting laughter.

“He means _poker_ , Aziraphale, not Happy Families. Or Snap.”

More sniggers, and the pain in his chest twisted as a shard of anger ran through it, “I play _poker_ ,” he clarified, eyes on Grainger and his smirk. “Although it has been a while, so I could be a little rusty.”

“A little rusty – or a little short?” this was Fabio, his voice rich and melodious but completely abhorrent pressed up against Crowley’s side as he was. “No offence, but I’m not sure that you will be able to match the stakes we’re used to playing here.” His liquid gaze slid up and down Aziraphale’s body, lingering on the tired old velvet of his second-favourite waistcoat. “Anyone who buys his clothes from a charity shop has no business playing with the big boys.”

“Vintage clothing is expensive and highly sought after,” this was James, abandoning his plate for Aziraphale’s defence, but Fabio just laughed.

“You’re right,” he conceded without looking away from the angel, “ _vintage_ clothes are.”

“Maybe we’ve got this the wrong way here,” this was Niles, jumping in without even looking up from his newspaper. “Perhaps Mr. Fell has no intention of making monetary bets. Perhaps he was thinking we meant _strip_ poker, and his vintage clothing could double as his stake?”

More laughter and, despite himself, Aziraphale felt the mortified flush rising up his neck. And then Crowley moved, straightening his spine a few degrees, sliding into a slightly more upright position pressed as he was between Fabio and the wing of the sofa and, for a few delirious moments, Aziraphale thought he was rising to his defence. “You really think that strip poker is going to work?” His blank glasses were fixed Aziraphale’s way, but his voice was angled at Grainger. “Are you kidding? Have you seen how many layers he wears? We’d all have stripped down to our bones before he’d even lost his ridiculous bow tie!”

Full on laughter greeted that comment, a wave of it that swept across the room and drenched Aziraphale in its icy wash, but it was the next comment that almost knocked him off his feet.

“And anyway, I have no desire to see that gut when it’s not held back by at least three layers of constraint.”

Hilarity ensued, belly laughs and choked splutters, Fabio hiding his mirth in Crowley’s chest, Pratik devouring the cruelty, Grainger appraising Crowley like he was his favourite son and Crowley himself, blank-faced and unmoved, swirling into the distance as Aziraphale found himself in a park on a Saturday morning, in the Bookshop, hopelessly outflanked by his own side, on the corner of a busy shopping street, held against the wall, in Gabriel’s office, shuffling under a disapproving stare. Beneath it all, however, was the howling hurt that Crowley _knew_ , Crowley knew exactly how much Gabriel had taunted him, Gabriel had belittled him, humiliated him and hurt him. Crowley knew because Aziraphale had told him, two bottles deep in whisky one night, Aziraphale had told him and Crowley had fumed and sworn revenge and promised the angel that he would never have to feel like that again because Crowley would not allow it. Well, it was hardly the first disappointment of Aziraphale’s life, but maybe it was the cruellest.

He blinked at Crowley’s impassive face, Nile’s shaking shoulders, Fabio’s smug possession and scrabbled around for a suitable comeback. Crowley would have had one. Aziraphale-as-Crowley would have had one. But this Aziraphale, the shabby, slow angel who _did_ like Happy Families and Snap, had never won a game of poker in his life and who _had_ been looking forward to warm scone and a cup of tea, well, _this_ Aziraphale came up pathetically short.

“Quite,” he said eventually, appalled at how his voice wavered. “Well.” It was all he had, all he was, and even that was enough to tug another snort of amusement from Pratik.

Crowley held his gaze and took a slow swallow of brandy, one hand sliding across Fabio’s shaking shoulders, and, for the second time that day, Aziraphale turned and walked away from him.

~~*~~

He hadn’t gone far along the corridor when he heard the footsteps behind him. For one, hopeless second, he thought it was Crowley, but the hasty, “Aziraphale!” which was thrown his way came from lips far more human than Crowley’s would ever be. He sighed, but stopped anyway, dragging all his ragged edges back under control, smoothing away his hurt and his anger the very best that he could.

“Aziraphale,” James caught up with him, his hand wrapping around Aziraphale’s forearm. “Are you alright? That bastard… Well, all of those bastards, but that _bastard_ …” he shook his head. “You need to ignore him.”

Raising his eyebrows, Aziraphale forced himself to reply. “Crowley?” he was well practised at buttoning up his emotions. “Ah, yes… Have you ever _tried_ to ignore him?” he let out a flat laugh. “Don’t worry about it, dear boy, he’s had a difficult life, you know. He finds it hard to be civil at times, but deep down…” he tailed off, deep down, what? He was actually a creature of Hell and was always going to act like one?

“That’s no excuse,” the rims of James’ eyes were red. “There is no excuse for any of them acting like that.”

Blowing out a breath, Aziraphale looked away, “No, you are probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.”

There was a silence then, James still holding into Aziraphale’s arm, Aziraphale wondering how he could kindly get rid of the boy and then a noise from along the corridor, a soft shuffling perhaps, caught his ear, he turned, wishing again for Crowley’s night vision and, abruptly, it all stopped.

Softly, James cleared his throat. “Look,” his voice held that same timbre that Crowley used when he was weaving a temptation around an unwitting human. “Come back to my room with me. There’s a mini bar, and a Sonos. We can just relax for a while. Forget him. Forget all about him.”

Forget Crowley? Aziraphale let out a flat little laugh. As if he’d been able to have any success at all in that endeavour ever since that very first day on the walls of Eden. He shook his head. “That’s very kind, James. _You_ are very kind. But I am alright, thank you. And I think that I need to be alone, right now. I’d be dreadful company anyway.”

He smiled, his default setting, and James smiled back, a little flat, a lot disappointed, but Aziraphale had more pressing things than that to think of. He stepped away, dislodging the hand on his arm, wondering if he could hear that strange noise in the darkness of the hallway once more, but then James spoke, his voice harder than Aziraphale had heard it before. “I will fix this, you know,” he stated, the cold determination clear in his tone. “All of this. Crowley, Grainger… I will fix it.”

Aziraphale’s chest tightened, “Fix it, dear boy? How?”

There was a pause, a beat of silence and then James smiled, back to being the same soft and gentle James that Aziraphale had known from before. “Don’t worry about it,” he took his own step back. “It will all be okay.”

Somewhere in the darkness behind him, the soft noise definitely sounded again and Aziraphale peered determinedly into the shadows. “Be careful,” he warned, his feet already following the memory of the noise. “There’s far more going on here than meets the eye.” 

~~*~~

As had been the pattern of the day, of the entire week, Aziraphale’s luck deserted him, this time meaning that he had no luck in tracking down his mystery noise. After James left, he didn’t hear it again, not in any of the corridors he paced, not in any dark corners or silent rooms. He looked at his pocket watch and sighed as he realised that it was only twenty minutes until dinner was due to be served. He needed to get back to his room and change, although what into, he had no idea. He had a wardrobe full of clothes that were both comfortable and well-loved, but, after the snide comments of the afternoon, he wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to look at any of them in the same light again. He could miracle himself an outfit in any design or style he liked, he could even alter the shape of his corporation if he were so inclined but – well – he _wasn’t_ , not really. Not yet… He was who he was, and anyone who wasn’t happy with that could go the exact same way that Gabriel had. The realisation made him incredibly sad.

He stopped and took stock of where he was, turning on the spot trying to place his location. The back of the house, he surmised, the opposite wing to his room. Typical – if he didn’t hurry, then he might even be late for the start of the meal and Aziraphale did not enjoy being late.

Once again, the corridors were silent and empty, the carpets plush and the paintings fascinating. Despite his rush, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to resist studying a series of paintings of racehorses through the years, from _Eclipse_ right through to _Desert Orchid_ when he suddenly realised where he was. The racehorse paintings had vanished and where the next should have been hanging, there was a circular window instead, a circular window which looked down onto the swimming pool below. Aziraphale paused and then edged forward again, elbows resting on the rounded ledge as he pressed his nose to the glass and, mindful of Karalina’s dreadful experience, looked down at the pool below.

It was empty, flat and still, lit from below and shining a tempting turquoise in the darkness. It wasn’t the largest of pools, but there was a set of wide sweeping stairs at one end and a complicated-looking pool hoist at the other. On three sides the walls were glass, looking out over the gardens and – Aziraphale’s heart jumped in his chest – there, in the pool of light thrown outwards through the glass, stood Crowley and Fabio. For a moment, Aziraphale was tempted to look away again, not sure he wanted to see what on earth they might be doing out there in the dark on their own, but then he got a glimpse of another figure, Elsie, Aziraphale realised, and more than that, it was clear that Crowley looked far from happy, in fact, Crowley looked positively furious and, he leaned over a little craned his neck to see a little better, so did the other two.

They were clearly arguing, the two sets of double-glazing between Aziraphale and the great outdoors was very effectively stealing their words, but Aziraphale had had six thousand years of studying body language (especially Crowley’s) and this was most certainly an argument. He tried his best to read their lips, but the refraction of the glass walls made that difficult, no matter which way he leaned. The argument seemed to develop a little at that, Elsie leaning forward and taking hold of Crowley’s hand, pulling him gently towards her, her mouth curved and welcoming now, tempting, and Aziraphale found that he was holding his breath.

Crowley shook his head, Elsie tried again, tugging him a little more firmly, and Crowley tugged back, snatching his hand from hers and holding it against his chest as if he were burned. It didn’t last long after that. Fabio turned away, his arm snaking out to drape around Elsie’s shoulders and together they walked into the darkness, Fabio shouting something over his shoulder as he went. Crowley was left standing alone, his face etched in such misery that Aziraphale felt the pain in his chest flare once more. He raised his hand to knock on the window, but before he could, Crowley turned and slipped into the darkness himself and all Aziraphale could do was watch him go.

~~*~~  
  
With his unscheduled stop, Aziraphale was a few minutes late for dinner but found, much to his relief, that the only spare seat left at the table was firmly between Karalina and James. Resisting the desire to tug his waistcoat down over his stomach, Aziraphale kept his chin high and his eyes on the empty seat as he walked along the length of the table, passing the backs of his tormentors that afternoon. Karalina looked pleased to see him, James relieved, and he found his fingers gathered up in Karalina’s painted ones the moment his bottom touched his seat.

“Are you alright?” She was doing her best to keep her words away from Niles at her side. “James told me about this afternoon.”

Aziraphale plastered a bright smile onto his face, “I am perfectly alright, thank you, my dear. I am very much looking forward to dinner, I wonder what delights Ada has cooked up for us tonight?”

Dinner that evening was a sad affair, although Aziraphale fared both better and worse than he had feared. Better, in that he managed to keep both his distance from Crowley, and his glances that way to the very minimum. Worse, in that his well-loved clothes felt tight and frumpy, and he had very little appetite for the food he was presented with.

This ill temper, however, seemed to affect more than just himself. The food itself was a little flat he felt, sloppily presented, as if it had been rushed onto plates by a hand that belonged to a being with many woes. The servers were slow and po-faced, casting shifty and accusing stares at Briggs as he paced, silent and solemn, around the room. Elsie and Fabio were almost glued together from shoulder to hip, whispering and giggling in a manner that seemed designed to put on a show more than anything else. Niles and Pratik were sombre and reserved, Pratik sending his time glaring at everyone else around the table, whilst Niles actually continued to read his newspaper. Crowley, on the few occasions that Aziraphale allowed himself a glance, looked strained and silently furious, whilst Grainger, no doubt affected by the lack of humour in his guests, was even more snappish than usual, culminating in a tearful Annabel fleeing the room in response to something he had said.

No one hung around after the desert had been poked around their plates for a while. Aziraphale himself had never eaten so little in a meal and, added to the fact that Crowley had obviously been sending food his way again, meant that his plates looked fuller than ever when they were returned to the kitchen. He allowed himself a final glance Crowley’s way as he left the room, his stuttered refusal to James ringing in his ears, and found the demon staring intently at the table cloth in front of him, a red flush to his skin, his brows drawn tight, something that looked a little like mud smudged over a cheekbone. Ignoring the pang in his own chest at the sight, Aziraphale again wondered how much he had had to drink.

Aziraphale was in no mood to dawdle around the house. He wasn’t sure, once or twice, if he hadn’t heard the strange sound in the corridors behind him once more, but he had had quite enough of the entire day to waste time in another fruitless search and was looking forward to sitting in the quiet of his room, sipping through the lovely Scotch and maybe even managing to concentrate on his book for a while. He was back within moments, locking the door behind him with a relieved sigh and, it was only when he went to the window to draw the curtains, that he considered a change to his plans.

London was, generally, a wonderful place to call home. Busy, interesting, compact, with easy access to any type of cuisine or any type of entertainment at (mostly) any time of the day. Aziraphale liked it, he liked the memories it afforded him of the times that he and Crowley had lived there, he liked how familiar and secure it all felt, he liked Soho in particular and how welcoming it was to a rather repressed angel, along with any of the other slices of humanity who had chosen it for their own. The only thing he didn’t really like about London was the unfortunate lack of access to the stars.

Crowley had always loved the stars, ever since Aziraphale had started taking the time to notice. He wasn’t sure why, wondered if it had something to do with the lack of any sky at all whilst contained in Hell’s darkness, but he had noticed the way the demon’s eyes drifted upwards whenever they were out in the blanket of night. Over the years that appreciation, that _love_ , had rubbed off on him. After a while, the sight of a sky full of stars meant Crowley, and Crowley when he was at his most content, and pleasant, soothing nights of shared drinks and quiet conversation and a drawing ever closer of souls. Suddenly, charred and chaffed as he was, Aziraphale needed the stars.

For a moment, he considered heading back down and walking in the grounds, but, despite the rain holding off, it was still so damp and the trees were so close to the house that the opportunities for actually seeing the sky above would have been limited. A snap decision was made, not something that Aziraphale often did. He stalked across to the other side of the room, snagging the decanter of scotch, his hand pausing over a glass before leaving it where it was. Back at the window, he yanked the ancient sash upwards, hearing it groan under the angelic expectations as it, nonetheless, complied. Leaning out a little, he checked below, the narrow, faux balcony that ran around all the rooms on this level, granite like the rest of the house, old and weathered and moss covered – Aziraphale felt like he could relate. 

He stepped out, taking a shuffling pace sideways and then leaning his back to the wall of his room, bending his knees and sliding downwards until he was sitting with his toes pressed up against the crumbling granite, his shoulders into the rough brick and his eyes on the sky above him. It was damp and cold, but he was an angel and under no obligation to feel any of that and so he didn’t, instead, he just traced the familiar constellations with his eyes, imagined Crowley’s commentary in his head, and tipped the scotch, repeatedly down his neck.

It was hard to judge how long he’d sat there, the whisky doing its best to warm him from the inside out, his mind doing it’s best not to linger on all the hurt he’d had thrown his way, but then a sound pulled him from his musings, a rough, scratching sound which seemed to be coming from the other side of the balcony and a little to the left. Aziraphale was a little perplexed, not worried at all, there was little in this world that could harm him, but perplexed, and he was just considering whether or not he was interested enough to get to his feet and have a look, when a black snout appeared over the wall a couple of feet away from his knees.

It was a neat, black snout, with a flash of red under the chin and scales that promised to shimmer in the rays of the sun. A pink ribbon of tongue slipped out into the night, tasting, testing and two golden eyes stared, sombrely at him as the creature stopped its advance. Huffing a soft, humourless laugh, Aziraphale took another mouthful of scotch. “What’s this, then, Crowley? You think that appearing here in snake form will make me less likely to smite you at first sight?”

The snake didn’t answer, he often chose not to speak in this form, just swayed slightly instead, adjusting his position so that more of his body was resting on the curve of the wall. Ancient myth had it that snakes hypnotised their prey before attacking, Aziraphale couldn’t comment on that per se, but he himself had always found Crowley’s eyes hypnotising. He let out a long breath. “Surely you understand that if I haven’t done it in the last six thousand years, then I am unlikely to start now?” He took another swallow, “Despite how beastly you and your ‘friends’ were this afternoon.”

The snake swayed a little more at that, and Aziraphale decided that he was not going to play Crowley’s games any longer. He blew out a breath and set his eyes on the stars once more, trying his best to ignore the serpentine eyes that were fixed on him in the dark.

The tableau held a little longer and then, with a soft sliding of scales, the snake slid closer, its tongue testing the air as it came, the long sinuous muscle of its body driving it closer to Aziraphale’s shoe, then his ankle, shin and, finally the angel felt the pressure of a delicately boned head as it rested on his knee. He looked down again and the snake flicked its tongue at him, pulling another huff from Aziraphale’s chest. “This is your version of an apology, is it?” he asked softly. “You never were that good at them, were you?” but then, Aziraphale reasoned, it was hardly a strong point of _his_ either.

He let out a long breath and reached out with his hand, allowing his fingers to trail over the smooth, dry scales. He and Crowley didn’t touch much, as a rule, but on the rare occurrences when Crowley slipped into his snake form, touching seemed far easier for them both. For a few moments, silence wove around them, Aziraphale watched his fingers as they petted up and down the smooth scales, then, with a long breath out, he tipped his head back to the stars and closed his eyes. “You know,” he remarked softly, his throat tight with emotion, “we don’t have to keep doing it like this, my dear, communicating through hints and guesses. Now it doesn’t matter what we say, now no one is listening to us, we could, actually, _talk_ to each other.” It was an empty wish – he and Crowley were as likely to talk to each other as Gabriel was to invite Aziraphale around for tea and crumpets. But still, an angel could dream.

Silence reigned once more, Aziraphale concentrated on the feel of the scales warming underneath his hand and the scotch swirling comfortingly in his belly. Then, as a breath of wind ruffled the curls on his head, there was the slightest shimmer in the air, and the pressure of a snake’s featherlight head morphed into something far heavier, whilst the scales under his hand shifted into soft, black cotton; Aziraphale didn’t move his fingers, but he didn’t open his eyes either, he didn’t dare.

Again, they sat, Aziraphale concentrating on the two points of contact that were spreading warmth through his entire body. The weight on his knee shifted, then, Aziraphale could almost imagine that sharp chin as it moved, and the swallow that ran up and down the long neck. Aziraphale kept his eyes closed, stilled his breathing to listen as, “I never wanted to hurt your feelings, angel,” was whispered out into the night.

He laughed, another empty huff in the darkness and risked opening his eyes to look at Crowley sat before him as he was, pressed up against the angel’s legs, his chin on a knee, Aziraphale’s hand on his bicep, the pair of them a counterpoint of light and dark, yin and yang. His hair was dishevelled past the stage of artful, and his face was pale in the darkness, only his very remarkable eyes shining like amber lockets. He shook his head, “Maybe not. But you knew that’s what would happen, though, didn’t you?” He didn’t need a word for his answer, the tightening around those eyes was enough. Aziraphale held his gaze, his tone soft, “You _can_ talk to me you know, Crowley.”

Crowley looked away from him, his chin still resting on Aziraphale’s knee, he seemed to need the contact as much as the angel, but Aziraphale could feel the waves of frustration rippling off him, frustration with himself, it seemed, and his inability to articulate how he felt. Aziraphale sympathised with him, two beings such as themselves had hardly been brought up for heart to hearts – but then, they hadn’t been brought up to save the world either.

He took a breath, “You want me to leave to keep me safe, don’t you?” it was a kindness, a way in, one he hoped Crowley would accept.

Those luminous eyes slid off to the side, although nothing else shifted between them. “It’s not safe here for you,” it was as close to an admission that he was going to get.

“Why not?”

Again, the eyes tightened, but this time Crowley’s lips pressed together and a wave of hopeless irritation surged through the angel’s chest. He pushed to his feet, forcibly dislodging Crowley from his knee and stepping over to the still open window. “I’m sorry, my dear,” his tone was clipped, laced with the barbs that had been fired at him throughout the day. “I’m willing to meet you half-way, more than half-way, but I’m not going to talk to myself about this, you know. I’m not always going to fill in the blanks for you.”

“Angel!”

Crowley’s voice was torn, anguished enough to make the angel pause, one leg in and out of the room, but nothing else was forthcoming, nothing else came his way and he sighed, shaking his head. “Come inside,” he offered, stepping over the mid-point once more. “And bring that scotch with you.” There was no answer from behind and he couldn’t help but turn at the silence, dreading to find that the demon had already gone. He was still there though, looking haggard and tragic and so like that day at the bandstand that Aziraphale had to grip hard onto the window frame to stop himself from swaying. “Unless you were planning on slithering back down the way you came up?” he asked.

He was rewarded with the slightest twitch of one corner of his mouth, before Crowley’s lithe body bent down to snatch up the decanter from where Aziraphale had left it. “Lead on,” he gestured with the cut glass and, relief flooding through him, Aziraphale did.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley apologises for his actions (well, he would do, if he wasn't a demon) and says that, if you knew what he knew, then you would understand...


	9. "I know that you are scared."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Aziraphale manages to get Crowley alone for a much-needed catch up, hoping that he will get some truths from his demon before he slithers off into the sunset once again...

~~*~~

Crowley sat at the end of the sofa, his body angled towards the fire and, in a break from tradition, Aziraphale plopped next to him, enough of the scotch in his system to find the nerve to be different. “Pass it over, my dear.” He reached for the decanter and Crowley obliged.

They sat in silence for a while, a cushion’s width between them, passing the scotch backwards and forwards, Aziraphale telling himself, over and over, that this was okay, this was fine, this was how he and Crowley had spent the last six thousand years together, and it was a perfect way to spend the next six thousand as well. It was far better than the alternatives, and Aziraphale _knew_ Crowley, knew what he was thinking (most of the time), did it matter if they still didn’t talk about it?

Almost as if he had heard Aziraphale’s thoughts, Crowley beside him turned slightly, away from the fire, angling himself towards the back of the room, carefully keeping his eyes from Aziraphale as he took another long swallow of spirit. “I don’t have long,” he glanced at his ridiculous watch. “I need to get back to Grainger.”

Grainger. Aziraphale felt a cold wash of realisation run over him. Crowley had not been cautiously returning up the walls to ensure that Aziraphale didn’t smite him, no, he had been planning on spying on the angel, having a quick check in to make sure he was back in his room (alone?) before Crowley then withdrew to return to his guard duties. It was only Aziraphale’s desire for the stars that had scuppered that plan.

“But really though,” Crowley was pushing on, his voice taut, anxious. “I do need you to head back to London.”

Heart sinking, Aziraphale took a mouthful of drink and held it out Crowley’s way, staring blankly at the wall.

“Hear me out, angel,” Crowley implored, now speaking to the cut glass in his lap. “I’ll only be a couple of days behind you, three at the most, four, tops,” Aziraphale flicked a glance sideways and watched him swallow. “And I’ll call you, every day to let you know how things are going… And when I get back, we’ll go to that Greek place in Holborn that you always wanted to try, you know, the one with the dead sheep outside-”

“Golden fleece.”  
  


“-And I won’t moan if you have white bait and taramasalata, or even the herrings, and we’ll get extra baklava to take home for the next day too…” he tailed off, maybe only just realising how pathetic he sounded, or maybe picking up on the flat stare that Aziraphale was now drilling into his temple.

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale waited, Crowley swallowed.

“ _Crowley_.”

A sigh, and slight turn of the head, “What?”

“What is going on?”

Silence wove and stretched around them, swallowing up the crackling fire, their unrequired breath, the solitary owl outside. Aziraphale waited, knowing that there were so many layers to this conversation, so many paths leading away from it – wherever would it take them??? Which path, which _life_ , would Crowley choose for them?

The demon sighed, his brows were pulled so tightly together that Aziraphale knew he must have a headache from the tension. He shook his head, an almost imperceptible shift and Aziraphale’s stomach twisted. He turned the angel’s way, his eyes wide, pleading. “I don’t have time for this now, I need to get back to Grainger. He’s in danger.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, whether it was at Crowley’s attempts at diversion or the danger that Grainger had obviously brought down upon his own head, he wasn’t quite sure.

Crowley pushed to his feet, Aziraphale was fleetingly put in mind of a crossbow being primed for use. “We can talk when I get back to London. About whatever you want. _Whatever_.”

Instantly, they were eye to eye, the fire at their sides, their futures before them. “Crowley,” Aziraphale could feel his own tension ratchetting up inside him, “You say that I am in danger, here, correct?”

Crowley nodded, the edges of relief creeping into his eyes.

“Grave danger?”

Another nod and Aziraphale couldn’t help the frustrated huff the response drew from him. “And you still think that I am going to happily abandon you to the same fate? That you can humiliate and belittle me in to leaving you here?” he could feel the righteous anger stirring in his chest. “That I am shallow enough, pathetic enough, that I will run home to my books the moment you accuse me of obesity?”

There was an almost-comedic reaction of Crowley jerking backwards as if slapped, his relief fleeing for the forests, an obvious pain flaring within him. “Angel,” his voice was choked, “I _never_ said that!” Trust Crowley to seize upon the wrong issue…

“I am not leaving you here on your own! I am never leaving you alone again!” Aziraphale exploded. “How many times do we have to go through this ridiculous pantomime?”

Crowley just stared at him.

“Would _you_? Would _you_ , Crowley? Run back to London and leave me here on my own? If I threatened you? Shouted at you? _Humiliated_ you? Would you?” The look on Crowley’s face said it all. “No. Of _course_ you wouldn’t,” awareness ran through Aziraphale with a diamond-like certainty and he frowned as the pain in his chest twisted into something exquisitely poignant. “You would stand and fall at my side,” he whispered, and those incredible eyes flickered and tried to shift away, but something held them fast. “You _did_ stand and fall at my side,” Aziraphale could not stop his fingers from reaching out and tangling in Crowley’s cold ones, remembering the airfield at Tadfield, remembering Crowley falling to his knees in agony as Lucifer approached, the despair in his eyes, all of their options eaten up before them. Well, _almost_ all of their options… “As I did with you,” the pain in his chest was stealing his volume. “We stood together at the end of everything and we _triumphed_. How is this different, Crowley? Tell me how?”

Crowley lost his battle and dropped his gaze, his own fingers tightening on Aziraphale’s, holding him with a grip bordering on desperation. His chest heaved as he drew breath and held it, letting it out long and shaking, “Because I _cannot_ lose you,” his voice was strangled, his eyes on the floor. “Not now. Not this time.”

Aziraphale swallowed as the pain in his chest swelled and stared at the crown of Crowley’s head. “You will not lose me,” the words needed forcing out through the tightness of his throat, the tightness of six thousand years of silence and denial. “You cannot lose me as I am _yours_ , Crowley. All of me. Everything I am. Everything you could ever want. I’m just here, just waiting,” _and shaking_ , he added silently, shaking so badly from fear and frustration and maybe a little bit of residual caution. This was it; he could see the fork in the road just of them, all that remained was to see which road Crowley would choose.

The bent head in front of him shook a little and Aziraphale held his breath to ensure that he caught every single syllable of Crowley’s reply. “Angel,” it was as if the word had been dragged from the demon’s lips, “I swore to myself that I would never, _ever_ , go too fast for you again. I know that you are scared.”

Hellfire would not have hurt half so much. For a moment, the desperate grip of Crowley’s fingers was the only thing keeping him on his feet as he swayed with the implications of how deep, how _fresh_ , a fifty-year-old wound was. Shame swirled within him and every single interaction since the end times took on a different, more distressing slant. Poor Crowley, oh, his poor, lonely demon. His poor, lonely _love_.

With one hand he tightened his grip on those long fingers, holding them fast, preventing retreat, with his other, he reached up, cupping that finely-boned jaw, lifting Crowley’s eyes and catching them with his own, leaning in so that his sincerity could not be doubted. “My dear boy,” he wished that his voice would not waver. “There really isn’t any setting, at all, that could possibly be construed as too fast. Not anymore. And scared? Yes, I am scared, you are right, but for the longest of times, the one thing that has scared me more than anything at all is the possibility of losing _you_.” Was that clear enough? Had he been clear enough? Maybe, maybe not, but there was one thing, one more thing, a move somewhat alien in an angel who had always preferred words to actions. Before he changed his mind, he leaned in, pushed up on his toes the tiniest amount, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s own. 

It was not how he had really ever imagined it, because imagine it he had. In his idle daydreams (fantasies?), their first kiss had been heated and desperate and frantic and rushed. It had led to the feverish stripping of clothing and then frenetic sex on the sofa in the back of the book shop. Or the Bentley. Or up against the cupboards in Crowley’s show-piece kitchen. Because Aziraphale _had_ thought about it, rather a lot it seemed, enough that this gentle and chaste and innocent pressing of lips made his heart ache at the beauty of it all, whilst his libido was forced to wait its turn.

Crowley was still against him, their fingers twisted together, Aziraphale’s palm feeling the sharp edge of his jaw. _Too fast!_ a voice in the angel’s head warned him and his chest tightened at the possible misstep he had made. He pulled back a little and looked at Crowley, his heart thumping as he considered what rejection would look like, how he would be able to tell if he had dreadfully misread the situation, how he would ever be able to make amends.

Crowley’s eyes were closed, his eyelashes, long and curled, a darker red than his hair, lay fanned out against his cheeks. His mouth had opened just a tad as Aziraphale had withdrawn, his lips the colour of darkest coral, glistening from their kiss. Their first kiss. Their only kiss?

The moment seemed to drag out into ten separate centuries as Crowley stood and Aziraphale stared and then, as the angel held his breath, those eyelashes fluttered and lifted and Crowley was looking at him, his eyes fully yellow but washed through with water, the effect startling, the irises shining like polished amber, the flecks of red and brown and aquamarine magnified, the pupils as black as the deepest abyss – he really was stunningly beautiful.

They stared at each other, Crowley’s expression unreadable, even to an angel who knew him so well. He hadn’t pulled back, but he hadn’t done anything else either and Aziraphale’s heart was still beating an anxious tattoo against his ribs. Finally, it was too much and Aziraphale started to withdraw, apologies fluttering uselessly in his chest, regrets beating hard behind them but at that first pull back, Crowley struck, bursting into action with a snake’s reflexes, his free hand shooting out and grabbing hold of a desperate handful of coat, pulling Aziraphale closer, leaning his head down, closing his eyes and pressing his own lips against the angel’s.

For a moment, it was just as before, just as still, just as chaste, but then, in a move that ignited the liquid warmth in Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley pushed in that little bit more, that tiny bit closer, his lips opening the slightest amount, inviting the angel in, inviting the intimacy to deepen – and Aziraphale did not need asking twice.

Floorboards creaked as they edged together, Crowley’s hand losing its grip on the angel’s coat and sliding around his waist instead. Aziraphale’s hand slipping up, tracing the taut column of neck until it could settle in the short hairs prickling at the demon’s nape. The kiss deepened as they each let the other in. More heat, more friction. Aziraphale shifted slightly to get a better angle between their noses and, with a sound of quiet desperation echoing in the back of his throat, Crowley pressed closer still, the tip of his tongue tracing the outline of angelic lips, his fingers spreading and pressing against the fine linen of Aziraphale’s coat.

This, Aziraphale muzzily considered, was heaven. Far more like heaven than Heaven had ever been. It was even more like heaven than Aziraphale’s fantasies had been, the way that they had almost instantly dissolved into rutting and coming, somehow nowhere near as beautiful as this slow and gentle learning of each other. They stood and they held one another and they tasted and they _felt_ and then, as one, they drew apart, hands still holding on even as they rested their foreheads together and breathed through the moment.

“Angel,” it was Crowley that broke the silence first and something in his tone threatened to burst the bubble of peace that had formed around them; Aziraphale closed his eyes in preparation. “Angel, I can’t…” nausea swirled under the wrappings of his waistcoat and Aziraphale found the fingers on Crowley’s nape tightening against the rejection. He felt the head under his fingers shake almost imperceptibly as Crowley tried again. “I can’t… I can’t do this, _lightly_.”

Aziraphale froze, lightly? _Lightly_? Crowley couldn’t do this lightly? This? The kissing? Warmth spread through Aziraphale’s corporation as everything suddenly slid into place. He had never made a move because of that dreadful night with the holy water and now he was worried, terrified, that this meant nothing to Aziraphale, that they were embarking on a casual fling that would end up chewing Crowley up and spitting him out into the gutter. And why??? _Because it meant something to him_. It meant something huge to him, _Aziraphale_ meant something huge to him. Love? It had to be. Romantic love. The kind of love that Aziraphale had always wanted for them, had always felt for them anyway, well, in the last few hundred years at any rate. Crowley loved him, he loved him back. This was all he had ever wanted. 

He looked up, found Crowley watching him. “Lightly?”

Again, Crowley shook for no, his forehead still pressed to Aziraphale’s the anxiety thrumming off him palpable. “I just… This has been… The way I…” he broke off, a growl of pure frustration rumbling up from his chest and Aziraphale crumbled in empathy for him, spending a lifetime in Hell’s employ, or Heaven’s for that matter, did not prepare one for the easy sharing of feelings.

Shifting his hand from nape to cheek, he tried to catch Crowley’s but they had pressed closed with the intimacy of it all. He wasn’t going to let that stop him, however. “There is nothing _light_ about this for me, my dear,” he whispered. “Nothing light _at all_.” He watched the flickering of emotions across Crowley’s face, watched him settle on frustrated anguish and frowned even as he slid his hand up into Crowley’s hair, pressing the pads of his fingers into the roots, touching in the way he had always wanted.

“It’s just,” but Crowley, it seemed, was not done torturing himself and his eyes pressed even more tightly closed as he forced himself to say what he so clearly did not want to. “It’s just… I know that you like sex, angel, and that’s fine, of course that’s fine, it’s just… for me… I don’t think… I couldn’t just…”  
  
“I love you.”

Aziraphale watched as Crowley’s desperate rambling stopped in a wince so marked that Aziraphale briefly wondered what had wounded him so. Working it out hurt more than he could ever have imagined. He took a breath, “My dear-”

“I know that you love me,” finally, Crowley’s eyes were open, still swimming in unshed tears but smiling, along with the rest of his face, in a bitter attempt at soothing. “You are an angel. The best angel that there is. Of course you would love me, you love _everything_.”

“No,” why couldn’t the stupid snake just _understand_? Aziraphale was back to cupping Crowley’s jaw, angling him, holding their eye contact, trying to project his sincerity. “Not that way. Not the way I love Adam and Anathema and the lady in the cake shop and Serge from the Italian. Not the way that I love spring and Proms in the Park and Jammy Dodgers. Not even the way that I love the Bookshop and the Bentley and your wonderful plants.” Crowley blinked at him, rare and beautiful and enough to dislodge a solitary tear that ran down the sweep of his cheek. Aziraphale smiled at him, smiled at the warmth he could feel in his chest, at the fear he could see in those serpentine eyes and knew that this was the right moment to say everything. “I love you as I love _you_ , and you only. I love you with my eyes, you are so beautiful, have been so enticing to me since that first day in the garden. I love you with my soul, you are my best friend, my defender and my confident, my ally and my companion through life, my one reliable constant through _everything_.” He stopped and smiled again, taking in the raw emotion flickering through those stunning eyes and swept his thumb through the wet track of the solitary tear. “And I love you with my heart,” he whispered. “All of it, for so long now. You are the one thing I cannot live without, the one thing that is essential to my very existence. For centuries now, all I have done has been about keeping you safe, keeping you as close as I ever dared, trying to live off stolen minutes and casual touches. Trying not to think too much about what it might be like if we didn’t have to hide, if we didn’t have to kowtow to Heaven and Hell, if we didn’t have to live, to _love_ , in fear. If we could just _be_. And now, here we are, and I have no set agenda, no definition of how this should go, no framework for what it should look like, but I do know that none of this is _light_ , Crowley, none of it. It is the one, single aspect of my continued existence that eclipses all others. The one truth. I love you. I love you more deeply and more intensely than the rest of creation pressed together.”

Silence.

It was more than Aziraphale had ever thought he would be brave enough to say. Still not everything, but more. Enough? Too much? Crowley did not manage emotion well, Aziraphale knew that. Had he given him enough to settle his fears, or would this send him running for the hills? He stopped – he watched – he waited.

Crowley stared at him, the slivery line of his tear on his cheek, the flush of his lips from where they had kissed. He stared, his eyes wide, the struggle clear in every line of his face. And then he shook his head again, just the tiniest shake, and his lips pressed together. “Aziraphale,” his voice was rough, “I am a _demon_.”

Frowning, Aziraphale swept his thumb across that lovely face once more. “You are,” he agreed. “But more than that, you are _my_ demon, and that is all I will ever need.”

Still Crowley gaped at him, and Aziraphale realised that he needed more. “What is it?” he asked gently. “Do you think I am lying? Delusional? Confused?”

Crowley shook his head, more forcefully this time.

“Well, all there is left to do is to believe me, then. Right? Do you believe me? Do you _trust_ me?”

“Of course,” the words were barely a breath.

Aziraphale smiled and freed his other hand from Crowley’s fingers so that he could hold his face, his thumbs smoothing over prefect cheek bones, his heart fluttering in hopeful joy. “Well, trust me then,” he whispered. “Trust me with your life. Trust me with your heart. Trust me to love you. Can you do that?”

There was a pause, a beat and then a nod. Aziraphale felt a wave of love wash through him and he reached in to press another kiss to Crowley’s lips. “Not lightly, remember,” he whispered into his mouth, “Never lightly.”

“Me neither,” the admission felt dragged from Crowley’s soul and the preciousness of it almost blew Aziraphale across the room. It was more than he had ever expected, more than he had dared to hope for. Nothing about their love would ever be light.

Abruptly, Aziraphale felt his knees weaken, felt Crowley’s fingers press more insistently into the small of his back and he drew them to the sofa once more, easing them both down, letting his hands drift down the demon’s long body, one resting on his knee, the other on his hip with Crowley mirroring him, one hand on Aziraphale’s ribs, the other on the flat of a thigh. They pressed their foreheads together again, somehow it was easier to manage the newness of the intimacy without having to look directly into each other’s eyes. “So, what now?” Aziraphale wondered aloud.

He knew that Crowley had sex, had _had_ sex, numerous times over the centuries. But, unlike Aziraphale who did it from choice with humans he felt emotions for (nothing like the way he felt about Crowley, but still, enough), Crowley did it through duty. For a temptation or a corruption. A betrayal or a manipulation. There was no positive emotion there, no smattering of love, no pleasant if transient emotion – no, there had only been lies and deceit, seduction and poison. Why would Crowley ever want to do anything like that again?

But still, they were sitting in a bedroom. Yes, it was a rather large one, with other furniture besides the bed, but, right now, that bed was all that Aziraphale could think of, all that he could see as it seemed to double in size with every laboured beat of his heart. Is that what Crowley would want? With _Aziraphale_? Tonight?

“I need to get back to Grainger.”

_Ahh._ Aziraphale’s internal stressing ground to a halt and his cheeks flushed with shame as he realised that he hadn’t given Grainger and the threat to his life a second thought since they had started their conversation. He pulled back and looked at Crowley, at the pale wash to his cheeks, at the shadows under his eyes and his heart pulled a little in his chest. He reached up and stroked that beautiful face, watching as Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut at his touch. “You look exhausted, my dearest.”

Those remarkable eyes opened once more, and the edge of a smile pulled at Crowley’s lips. “Only another few days,” he whispered, “and then we can go home, and I can sleep for the rest of the week.”

Aziraphale stroked him again, loving the way that Crowley leant into the touch, wondering if it would be okay for him to accompany Crowley in that nap? For the demon to sleep next to him, on him maybe, whilst Aziraphale read and watched over him and wasn’t reduced to pacing his bookshop on the other side of London, worrying and wondering and _missing_ him. They would have to see. Maybe they could. Maybe.

Crowley pushed to his feet and Aziraphale went with him, he could see the very real reluctance in his eyes. “I need to go. Samuel is with him now, but…”

Frowning, Aziraphale forced his head back into the game. “What is it? Don’t you trust him? Samuel, I mean.”

Crowley laughed, short and bitter, “I don’t trust _anyone_ , angel,” and then he smiled, a smile so soft it melted Aziraphale in an instant. “Apart from you. I’ve only ever trusted you.” He pressed a kiss then, soft and tender, onto Aziraphale’s lips before taking a breath and stepping back, tugging his jacket down and flicking his hair back into place, offering up a sad little smile, with just the edge of secret joy. “You will stay in the room, then?” he queried, the usual anxiety running through his voice. “Until the morning?”

“Until the morning,” Aziraphale reassured him. “Eight thirty? Shall I meet you for breakfast, or come over to Grainger’s rooms?”

Thinking for a moment, Crowley paused and then, “Grainger’s rooms,” he agreed. “Who knows what the old bastard wants from me tomorrow.”

“Well, as long as it’s not the same as I want from you,” Aziraphale teased, “I think we will manage it okay.”

Crowley flushed and that, and offering up the same, almost-reluctant smile, he turned and headed out of the door. Aziraphale stood in the silence of his leaving for many minutes, a hand to his chest, a smile on his face.

~~*~~


	10. “What the goodness has happened in here?!”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the night before. Crowley and Aziraphale might have cleared up a few issues between them, but there remains a potential murderer at large - can the dynamic duo start to cross a few names off that exhaustive list of suspects?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus update! My week is far less crazy than previous weeks have been and so I have found myself with a little extra time. Hope you enjoy :) Sunday post to happen as normal.

~~*~~

Yet again, Aziraphale spent the night with a book completely ignored on his lap and his mind full of a certain demon. This night, however, unlike the thousands of others which had preceded it, was packed to the rafters with joyous hope, with plans and possibilities, with excited realisation. His mind was already back in London and all of the wonderful ways in which their eventual admissions would enrich their freedom even more.

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley would like to hold hands as they walked through the park, and seeing the way that he had arched into the feel of Aziraphale’s hand on his face, he rather thought that he would. He wondered if they could start sitting at the quieter, more intimate tables dotted around the edges of their favourite restaurants, where they could tangle their feet together under the cloth and press their fingers close above it. He wondered if they would stay over at each other’s places, watching TV at Crowley’s until he fell asleep leant up against Aziraphale’s side on the sofa, talking until dawn in the Bookshop and then heading out for croissants as the bakers opened up around them. Life, since the end-that-wasn’t, had been wonderful: now, Aziraphale was full of effervescent joy about how _extraordinary_ it could become. All they had to do was work out who was messing with Grainger’s peace of mind and hand them over to the police, and they would be free to head off and let all of the wonderful begin.

To that end, Aziraphale spent the rest of the night going over what they knew about the many, many suspects currently living around them. It was then that he realised that not much in the way of actual sleuthing had gone on over the past day or so, instead, he and Crowley had become too mired in their own dramas, too preoccupied and vital time had been wasted. It was almost the weekend again, almost the end of their chances, and, as much as Aziraphale truly did not think that anyone was actually planning on murdering Grainger at all, it was true that something strange, and in Crowley’s opinion, dangerous, was going on here. It was their job to get it sorted, and quickly.

It wasn’t until around six thirty a.m. that Aziraphale realised he could have offered to accompany Crowley to sit with Grainger for the night. He was disappointed with his oversight and, for a moment, contemplated heading over early and surprising him, maybe bringing a coffee with him as well, but then he remembered Crowley’s words, asking him to stay in his room until eight thirty, remembered how important it had seemed to him and so had stayed his hand, returned to his notes and made a list of all the things they still didn’t really _know_.

It also occurred to him, in making the list, that, in all the baring of emotion, Crowley had _still_ managed to avoid any actual discussion regarding what it was that had had him so spooked these last few days. They hadn’t discussed the strange noises in the corridors, or Aziraphale’s continued distaste for Fabio and Elsie, they hadn’t discussed where Crowley had been sidling off to all those times, and why he had turned up for dinner with mud on his face. He blew out a breath, frustrated with himself for not thinking to ask. What was it about Crowley that bamboozled him so much? That picked him up and spun him around, spitting him out without knowing which way was up? _Love_ , he answered in his head, and smiling once more, went off to sit in the window seat and watch the sun rise.

~~*~~

It was eight twenty precisely when Aziraphale finally left his room and set off towards Grainger’s suite. There was a spring in his step and a smile on his face and he positively bounced along the plush corridors. He thought back to Crowley’s words as he strode, _wondering what the old bastard wanted from him today_. It occurred to Aziraphale at that moment that it really did not matter what David Grainger wanted from Crowley on this day, whatever it was, they were going to face it together, complete it together, get through it together – and then, he felt his smile threaten to split his face in two, then, they could go home. Together.

Such pleasant musing brought him all the way to Grainger’s rooms and he was just lifting his hand to knock, when he noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. For a moment, he paused, his stomach doing unpleasant flip flops under his waistcoat, and pressed his ear to the wood, listening carefully, but there was silence within. He reached out with the more non-human of his senses, and, rather worryingly, could not feel Crowley on the other side. Bolstering his nerve, he reached out with a single finger and pushed the door open.

Once the door had finished its ponderous swing, he had an immediate view of Grainger’s sitting area. It was as immaculately neat as it had been before, not a cushion or a remote control out of place. Slowly, Aziraphale wandered in, biting back on the polite desire he felt to call out a cheery ‘hello’ and, instead, letting his eyes flick over everything, opening his ears and his other senses to boot, searching for anything that might be even the slightest bit odd.

At first, there was nothing, but then, as he stood and turned, silently, in a circle, he heard a noise coming from the bedroom beyond. He froze, listening intently, it was very quiet, very soft, a rhythmic, repetitive rubbing sound, over and over and – he held his breath to better hear – accompanied by the quietest hint of trickling water. Feeling no occult presence around him (not even Crowley), Aziraphale took a breath and crept across the carpet.

In the bedroom beyond, the curtains were wide open on another dank and dismal day, the bed was made and the room was free of clutter and mess – as tidy as the main living area beyond had been. Unlike the main area, however, it wasn’t unoccupied. Helen, David’s PA and general dogsbody was in there, wearing long rubber gloves and a plastic apron, and busily washing blood from the expensive, vinyl wallpaper.

“What the goodness has happened in here?!” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, stepping into the bedroom with his mouth dropped in shock, “Who on earth has done _this_? Is Mr. Grainger alright?”

Helen let out a short shriek at the sudden interruption, spinning around and flattening herself against a bloody wall, a hand on her chest, her breathing loud and ragged. “Mr. Fell!” her voice shook along with her hands, “Would it have been an inconvenience for you to _knock_?”

Aziraphale ignored her and stepped fully into the room, standing on the rug at the foot of the bed and turning slowly on the spot, staring at the carnage around him, at the fact that every wall was covered in foot-high letters, written in blood, that all said the same thing, ‘Die! Die! Die!’ over and over again.

Sighing, Helen turned away again and dipped her cloth into the pink-tinted water at her feet. “Mr. Grainger is fine, thank you. He, thankfully, slept through it all and is taking his morning hydrotherapy with his daughter. And we don’t know who did it,” her voice was tired, beaten down, worried, and, mentally, Aziraphale crossed her name off his list of suspects – this was not faked. “The same person who has been doing it for weeks, I would imagine. The same person that your Mr. Crowley was supposed to apprehend.”

Aziraphale’s blood ran horribly cold at that, and he took a step closer to Helen’s back. “Mr. Crowley?” he whispered, trying hard to keep the fear from his tone. “He was supposed to have been here last night. He was supposed to have been sitting outside,” he pointed, needlessly, at the room beyond. “He was supposed to have been watching over Mr. Grainger _all night_.”

Helen turned back at that and eyed him carefully for a moment. “Yes,” she admitted quietly, “he was _supposed_ to have been doing that, wasn’t he?”

Feeling his knees starting to tremble, Aziraphale stopped them with a thought. “But he didn’t?” It wasn’t really an answer he felt that he wanted. “He didn’t turn up?”

Laughing, Helen dunked her cloth once more. “Oh, he turned up,” her reply was bitingly caustic. “Sat out there all night, he reckons. Fell asleep on the sofa more like.” Aziraphale almost sagged in relief as Helen threw a glance his way, fury in eyes which were washed through with tears. “I just suppose we’re lucky whoever this is didn’t decide to kill them both, aren’t we? This time…” She turned her back again, scrubbing furiously at the wall and Aziraphale watched her, slowly feeling his frantic heartbeat settle.

It was indeed strange though. Had Crowley fallen asleep and allowed someone to creep in on them? Possibly, after all, he was visibly drained after everything that had happened over the course of this week, but then, wouldn’t he have heard it? Crowley wasn’t exactly a light sleeper, but then he was also fairly paranoid about his own and Aziraphale’s safety, so it made no sense that he would fall into a deep sleep here of all places. Unless the interloper didn’t come in through the door at all, unless they came in another route? His eyes turned to the windows that looked out across the gardens, remembering how Crowley had looked at them the morning of the knife, wondering who would be able to get from such a height?

“He’s gone to the breakfast room,” Helen interjected, her voice still cold and bitter and Aziraphale raised a questioning eye at her. “Your friend. Mr. Crowley. He’s gone down to breakfast, it seems that Mr. Grainger almost dying wasn’t enough to put him off his food…”  
  
Aziraphale absolutely doubted that, but it wasn’t a doubt worth voicing. Instead, he nodded his thanks and turned back to the door, stopping when he came to a cupboard pushed back against the wall, a cupboard he had seen before but which had always been closed when this time it was wide open, and with a whole array of medical equipment stored inside it. Knowing that David Grainger had suffered a severe stroke and actually appreciating it, were two, separate, issues it seemed. It had never occurred to Aziraphale that the man had needed an active health care regime at all, never mind that he needed everything in this cupboard to keep him alive and well.

Quick eyes ran over the stock of syringes, the vials of medication, the tablets and the dressings, the nebuliser and the oxygen tank and then they settled on something he had never seen before. Aziraphale had done his time in medical units all over the world and right across the centuries. From the days when the best that could be done for an injured person was to keep them out of the sun’s rays whilst waiting to see if they would live or die, to administering the occasional miracle in a high-tech children’s ICU, Aziraphale had done it all. He knew his way around a medical catalogue, but this was something new; throwing a cautious glance to the back of Helen’s head, he reached in and pulled it out.

The size of a two-slice toaster, it was surprisingly heavy, roughly cubed in shape with a screen on the front and a variety of ports and leads arranged around the back and sides. Aziraphale was just turning it in his hands, just pondering what on earth it could be, when, abruptly, it vanished from his grip.

“Do not,” if Aziraphale thought that Helen had been angry before, it was clearly nothing to how she felt now, “touch that.”

Stepping back, Aziraphale watched her wrapping the leads around it once more and sliding it back on its shelf, the careful reverence of her touch a clear indicator of the item’s importance. “What is that?” he asked mildly, daring to drop just the slightest flavour of angelic soothing into his tone, but it seemed that it was a waste of effort.

“Not yours,” Helen shot back, closing the cupboard door and sliding herself in front of it.

“Obviously not mine, dear girl,” Aziraphale tried out a gentle smile. “Mr Grainger’s I presume? And an important doo-hickey at that, it seems.”

Helen was beginning to look most distressed, her brow creased in consternation, her eyes filled with tears. “It is none of your business,” she repeated once again. “Please leave now. I believe that you and your partner have done quite enough damage to Mr. Grainger for one day. Don’t you?”

The rejoinder was more puzzling than hurtful, but realising that his welcome had most certainly expired, Aziraphale nodded and headed for the door, hoping that Crowley, at least, had some answers for him.

And that there were some sausages left from breakfast.

~~*~~

Double checking that Crowley had not, in fact, returned to their rooms, Aziraphale had had a fruitless trek to the far end of the house and back, before rerouting himself to the Sun Room and the hope that Crowley had not moved on without him.

Arriving at one end of the corridor, the angel was just in time to spot Grainger, with his daughter Annabel pushing his wheelchair, entering the Sun Room themselves and Aziraphale’s relief that the old man wasn’t dead, was tempered by the look of haughty disdain he was wearing on his face. Slowing his pace a little, Aziraphale kept out of sight, following on silent feet and settling himself at the side of the door.

The Sun Room was surprisingly full. Niles and Karalina at a window table, Fabio and Elsie at the one nearest the door. James was sitting with Gloria and Geraint Lyons, whilst Samuel and Rebecca Grainger were sharing a table with Jeremy Weir, Annabel’s husband. Pratik was at the buffet, heaping eggs onto his plate whilst Ada was transferring sausages from her serving dish to the _bain marie_ at his side, Briggs from his station near the dumb waiter, watching her intently. Apart from Helen, it seemed that they had a full house.

And there, thank the Almighty herself, sitting at a table all alone, was Crowley.

Aziraphale’s relief was a tangible thing that swept through him equal parts warm and cold. Ever since the deviation to their plans, Aziraphale had been filled with a mounting dread that something awful had happened, that something appalling would rise up and strike them just at the very moment that they had truly found each other. But Crowley was there, sitting not ten feet away from him, alive and very much in one piece but, everything was most certainly _not_ alright.

There was a cup of Briggs’ finely made espresso sitting on the table in front of him, but Aziraphale could see that it was untouched. Crowley himself was wound like a spring, one long leg draped over the other, his arms folded across his chest, not a hair out of place and his glasses hiding his eyes completely, the picture of perfect poise. But all of it was a lie, all of it was designed to make the humans around them think that he was something he wasn’t; the story of Crowley’s entire existence, really. Aziraphale’s heart ached for him, ached to take him away from all of this awful stress and anxiety and just watch him sprawl, content, across the sofa in the Bookshop, not a single care in all of the world.

But that would absolutely have to wait as David was positioning himself in his chair right across the room from the anxious demon, was drawing himself up as much as he could, was staring at Crowley with something like a furious glee etched into his features – Aziraphale realised that this was not going to be pretty.

“Crowley?” for a man so ravaged and damaged by the vicious stroke that had cut him down, David’s voice still managed to demand attention from the entire room. Idle chat fell silent, cups settled back onto saucers, eyes lifted from poached eggs and, as Aziraphale’s heart thumped hard against his ribs, Crowley lifted his gaze to settle on the human in the wheelchair.

“Yes?”

“What the bloody hell were you playing at, last night?” Grainger had picked his moment well, maximum exposure, maximum humiliation, but who, precisely, was he trying to humiliate here? And what would the other guests think, the _oblivious_ other guests, if they discovered that there was a potential would-be murderer sharing their lightly sautéed button mushrooms?

Crowley took a moment before answering, and Aziraphale knew that he was doing his best to keep hold of his temper. “I was doing what I was paid to do, and, as I have tried to explain more than once already this morning, I was doing it perfectly well.”

“No,” Grainger held his ground and edged forward a little in his chair, “you weren’t. Otherwise the ‘unfortunate incident’ from last night would not have happened.”

There was a general air of confusion running around the room, only Annabel and Pratik seemed to know, exactly, what Grainger was referencing, the rest seemed lost.

“I did nothing wrong,” Crowley maintained and Aziraphale could hear the grinding of his teeth in his answer.

“You fell asleep!” Grainger roared, “In my employ, on the clock, wasting my good money, taking advantage of me and thinking that I was too stupid, too _disabled_ to even notice!”

“I did not!” Crowley was on his feet at that, pulling a flinch from James Shepherd and a hint of a smug smile out of Niles Bridgewater.

Grainger, however, was not in the slightest intimidated, rolling his chair forward again and fixing Crowley with a cold glare. “Do not speak to me like that,” he boomed. “You are my employee, my subordinate. You are here because I asked you to be, to do a particular job, and yet I find you sleeping on my payroll! It’s a disgrace! I cannot decide if you are inept; bungling and incompetent and too busy trying to look cool and flirt, or if you are a charlatan, a swindler, and a waste of my time and money, holidaying here at my expense instead of doing the job I damn-well paid you to!”

“I _was_ doing the job,” Crowley maintained, “I _am_ doing the job!”

“Oh,” Grainger folded his arms and raised a supercilious eyebrow. “You are, are you? So you have some answers for me then, do you? Before I _run out of time_? Before your job becomes pointless and just _too bloody late_!” Annabel sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like an aborted sob, and Grainger threw her a cold look before turning his ire back Crowley’s way. “You are a waste of fucking time,” he spat. “And a waste of every penny I have, so far given you. Do you hear what I am saying to you?”

“Yes,” Crowley hissed and Aziraphale could feel the waves of tension rolling off him.

“Yes, what?” David shot back. “I am your employer here don’t forget. Your superior, the person paying your wages and filling your cup with expensive bloody coffee. Get some manners when you address me!”

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Crowley ground out and Aziraphale cringed for him.

“That’s better,” Grainger’s eyes were cold, like dark little pebbles as he stared Crowley’s way, determined to grind him to paste under his heel and in front of all these people. “Now, you get me some results in the next two days, or you can wave goodbye to the rest of your pay. I will drag you through every court in the land to get back every single penny you have already conned from me, and I will flay your reputation into strips so tiny that you will never work again in any corner of this land. Is that clear?” Crowley just stared at him. “I will _ruin_ you, Mr. Crowley. Destroy you. You and that fancy bastard you run around with-”

Aziraphale moved at that, projecting himself across the room whilst simultaneously convincing everyone there that he had been standing at Crowley’s side all along, arriving in the nick of time to slam a restraining palm into Crowley’s sternum, just as the demon’s temper had finally shattered and he was lurching forward.

“I think you have made your views _crystal_ clear, Mr. Grainger,” his voice, he knew, was cut glass. “And you have no need for any concern; the contract with us will be fulfilled in its entirety before the end of celebrations here.” He could feel the desperate curiosity rippling around the room, knew that this confrontation would be the topic of much gossip for at least the rest of the day, but he stayed his place, his palm measuring the thundering of Crowley’s heart beneath it, his eyes boring into Grainger’s across the silent room.

Grainger broke first, evidently finding the concentrated focus of an angel too much to bear for too long. He whirled his chair around, spitting a vicious, “See that you do,” over his shoulder, before adding, “Briggs, serve me my breakfast in my rooms. And be damn quick about it, man.”

The command seemed to startle Briggs from his reverie, and he jerked to attention, a sombre, “Very good, sir,” slipping from his lips as he tore his attention from Crowley and Aziraphale and loped steadily from the room. Grainger’s departure seemed to break the spell around everyone else as well, as Ada and her serving dish departed, the diners returned to their breakfast and Crowley and Aziraphale were, for the moment, ignored.

Cautiously, his palm still firm on a heaving chest, Aziraphale turned to Crowley, meeting his flat stare with a gentle smile. “It’s alright, my dear,” he kept his voice too low to travel. “We will sort this, you know. Together.”

Letting out a tiny huff, a sliver of tension ran off Crowley’s shoulders and his face lost some of its marblesque rigidity. “I’m not sure if the old bastard wants me to trail after him or not,” he muttered darkly. “Quite honestly, I’m happy to leave him to whatever murderer fancies their chances right about now.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed, sliding his hand from Crowley’s chest to loop his fingers, loosely, around a bony wrist. “Breakfast first though,” he offered, “and then we will see what his idiotship wants after that. We can’t save his worthless behind on an empty stomach now, can we?” The edge of a smile lifting Crowley’s lips was worth everything.

They sat in the corner, as far away from the others as possible, determined to ignore the stares and whispers and, Aziraphale had barely opened his napkin and spread it across his knee, when the doors to the Sun Room opened and in came Amanda the Saturday Girl, pushing a trolley laden with fresh breakfast fare in front of her whilst making a determined path straight to their table. “From Cook,” she loudly explained as she unloaded plate after plate of hot food, breaded goods, pastries and fruit. “She said that the other stuff would probably be cold now, and she wanted you to have fresh.” She smiled, nervously, at Aziraphale as she set a teapot in front of him, but beamed, warmly, at Crowley as he gave him his cafetiere. “Cook says I’m to come back in about fifteen minutes, see if you’re missing anything. That alright?”

Crowley nodded tersely whilst Aziraphale showered her with one of his best smiles. “Absolutely, dear girl! And tell Mrs Richardson that we are most grateful for her thoughtfulness, both of you, won’t you?”

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Amanda the Saturday Girl beat a hasty retreat and, offering Crowley a soft smile of his own, Aziraphale tucked in.

~~*~~


	11. "We stick together from now on."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Grainger's birthday celebration is fast approaching and still Crowley and Aziraphale don't have any concrete leads on which to build. They do have each other though - which makes a nice change!

~~*~~

Aziraphale ate slowly, savouring every bite as always, but also biding his time, out-waiting every nosy guest who found that they couldn’t sit at an empty table any longer, and also carefully monitoring the degrees of tension in Crowley’s body as they slipped away, one by one. Finally, they were alone, Fabio and Elsie being the last to depart after obviously waiting, quite unsuccessfully, for Crowley to turn their way, whilst Aziraphale was also satisfied with the coffee that Crowley had drunk and the slouch that had returned to his shoulders. Dabbing at his lips with his napkin, he eyed his silent companion, and, at the feel of his stare, Crowley looked up.

“I didn’t fall asleep,” he offered quietly. “I was awake all night and no one went in that room. No one.”

Nodding, Aziraphale folded his napkin and set it down next to his empty croissant plate, selecting his words very, very carefully. “Are you sure, though, my love?” the endearment was not accidental. “You have looked so tired these past few days, no one would blame you for nodding off for a few moments.” He reached out and tangled their fingers together on the white tablecloth, another deliberate move.

Still, Crowley stiffened at the perceived insult, but he didn’t pull his fingers away, which was all Aziraphale had hoped for. “I’m sure,” he ground out. “I was awake all night.”

Aziraphale nodded easily, “The window then,” it wasn’t a question. “Even though he is three floors up.”

Crowley’s glasses flicked his way. “Or one floor down,” he countered. “From the roof, I mean.”

“Yes… good point. That needs to go on the list of things to check out today.” Reluctantly untangling their fingers, Aziraphale pulled out his notebook and added to his newest of lists, Crowley leaning forward for a better view. “And that faux balcony needs looking into as well,” that was added to the list. “When I was sitting out there last night, I could have quite easily made my way to the room next door, or beyond. It’s another possibility.”

“It is.”

At the mention of the previous night, there was an edge to Crowley’s voice that tugged at Aziraphale’s chest and he lifted his eyes, caught the demon watching him with nothing short of trepidation in his expression and that pain was back in Aziraphale’s chest. Carefully setting down his notebook and his pencil, he gathered Crowley’s hand up in both of his and smiled up into that dear face. “Could you remove your glasses, please?” he asked; this was important, they needed to get it right.

For a moment, Crowley was still, his expression blank, but then he reached up with his free hand and slowly pulled them away, laying them on the tablecloth next to his untouched plate before forcing his gaze up to meet the angel’s and Aziraphale was not surprised at the apprehension he could see there. He smiled again, “Crowley, _darling_ ,” using that word did pleasantly squirmy things to his stomach. “Last night was real. The way I feel about you is real. The way that we can be together, properly, in any way we wish, is real. I love you. It’s important to me that you understand that. _Remember_ that.”

There was a beat of silence and then Crowley nodded. Once. Decisively. And another hand slid over the top of their joined three. “Me too,” Crowley’s voice was low, wavering slightly in the silence of the Sun Room. “Even if, you know,” he shrugged, “I don’t really show it.”

Aziraphale smiled again, “Oh, you show it,” he whispered and to spare Crowley’s blushes, he leaned over the table to press a quick kiss onto his lips.

“There,” they drew back, a line of red across Crowley’s cheekbones, Aziraphale’s smile beaming, “Do we have that straight now, do you think?”

Crowley smiled a little self-consciously as he pushed his glasses back into place, but it was a delightful little smile, full of wonder and secrets and love. “We do,” he sounded a touch breathless which Aziraphale thought was all kinds of incredible. “But I suppose all the fun stuff will have to wait until we’ve sorted this mess out, right?”

“ _Most_ of the fun stuff,” Aziraphale qualified with a pooling warmth low in his stomach; it was gratifying that Crowley seemed open to exploring that ‘fun stuff’ together. “But yes, this place has lost almost all of its charm now. We need to find out who is tormenting the awful Mr. Grainger, and then we can just _go home_.” Again, Crowley smiled that precious smile of his and Aziraphale knew that his mission from that moment onwards would be to try and see it again, day after day after day.

Shaking himself, he went back to his list and tapped at it with his finger. “So, is Grainger expecting you to be glued to his side all day? Because if he is, he surely can’t expect you to also do any actual _detecting_.”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know for certain, but I think not. I suppose we’ll have to go and check.”

The use of an inclusive pronoun warmed Aziraphale’s chest, he was quite done with walking away from Crowley, and he nodded thoughtfully. “Problem is though,” he pondered, “if you are not keeping Grainger safe, then someone else will need to, someone you trust and-”

“No,” Crowley bit out, harsh enough to make Aziraphale startle. “Not you. We stick together from now on, agreed?”

Aziraphale smiled, “Agreed, my dear.”

Nodding, Crowley quickly glanced around the room, checking they were very much alone before lowering his voice and holding Aziraphale’s eyes with the glass of his shades. “But anyway, I heard back from Mahmud.”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“My contact in the City, yes?”

“Ah, yes, right.”

“Well, he’s found something very interesting indeed…”

“Go on.”

Crowley was grinning, the grin that Aziraphale had always thought of as his demon-grin. “Seems that Samuel Grainger is absolutely, totally, completely – flat broke.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows raised. “Is he now? Flat broke would not suit a man such as he, I would imagine.”

“No, I think you are right.”

“Broke enough to need a rather large inheritance from his father to sort him out?”

“Definitely,” Crowley answered, but leaned in closer still, “and there’s more.”

Aziraphale’s brows rose once again.

“Not only is _he_ broke, but his sister is too.”

This time Aziraphale could not supress the little gasp of surprise. “Annabel?”

Crowley sat back, “Yep. Seems like the only thing keeping little George Weir in his stupidly expensive Prep School this term is the intervention of his grandfather.”

Aziraphale could feel the ‘oh’ his mouth had made at that. “His _grandfather_? Grainger?”

The demon-grin widened. “Nope. His _other_ grandfather, Thomas Weir, because, it appears that Grandad David is _also_ decidedly lacking in the funds department.”

This time the ‘oh’ was audible. “ _Decidedly lacking_ , dear boy? What does that mean?”

“It means that there aren’t even magic beans in his coffers, angel, that he’s living on credit and those creditors are getting decidedly pushy for some payback.”  
  


Aziraphale couldn’t really believe what he was hearing; it was starting to resemble one of those dreadful crime films that Crowley loved so much. “You think that this is the _creditors_ threatening him? But what on earth would they gain from killing him before he could pay them back?”

“No,” Aziraphale could see Crowley’s brows over the tops of his glasses, “You’re missing the point. It’s not his creditors who are after him, they are all top-notch London money firms. Just think about it, don’t you think it’s odd that _all three of them_ are rendered penniless at the same time?”

A blink was Crowley’s first answer, along with an added, “Well, when you put it like that…”

“Failed investment,” the demon whispered. “Some Silicon Valley start-up that Grainger discovered and persuaded both of his children to invest in as well. Ruined all three of them when it collapsed.”

Aziraphale frowned, “But – why throw this lavish party, then? It must be costing him a _fortune_!”

Crowley shrugged. “No idea. But at least it means that we can finally cross _someone_ off our list of suspects.”

The frown deepened, “Someone?”

“ _Someones_. Annabel and Jeremy. Samuel and Rebecca. Why would they get rid of Grainger now, when they won’t get a penny out of his passing? All his properties are tied up in his credit, everything else will be wiped out in bills. Pointless exercise, and they know it. No wonder they’ve both been so arse-faced this week.”

Somehow, though, Aziraphale was not convinced. “But… Grainger’s advice has ruined them. Ruined life for their children too. You don’t think that they could do this out of simple revenge?”

It was as if a cloud had passed across Crowley’s face at that and, for a moment, Aziraphale wondered what he’d done, wished he hadn’t, and then he understood.

“I don’t know, angel,” his words were quiet, his eyes on the tablecloth. “I can’t speak for them, but a parent is a _parent_ , yes? They may hurt you, they may… ruin life as you know it, but they are still your parent. They still created you, even if they…”

_Cast you out_ , Aziraphale filled in for him, gathering his fingers up in his own once more and squeezing. “I understand,” he whispered, and he did. That pain, he could absolutely feel it. “Let’s cross them off the list, then. At least it means that we have someone we can trust to watch him whilst we are busy. And we can start working down the list of things we need to look into.”

Visibly shaking himself, Crowley nodded and looked over at Aziraphale’s impeccably neat list. “What’s this?” a long finger reached out and tapped at item number three and Aziraphale frowned.

“Ah, yes, well then,” shuffling forward and reluctantly leaving Crowley’s hand to itself on the table, Aziraphale related the story of the cupboard by the door and its strange collection of medical equipment. He then sketched out the box that he had picked up and pushed it Crowley’s way for a better look. “Have you ever seen one of those before?” he asked. “Helen was most perturbed that I had found it.”

Lifting the notebook, Crowley studied Aziraphale’s sketch, turning it left and right and letting out a long sigh. “I don’t know, angel,” he admitted, “you are better at all that medical shit than I am. But hang on…” He pulled his phone out, holding it over the sketch until the camera shutter sound clicked and then he started tapping away in a focussed and determined manner before, “Aha… This look like your box?” He held up the screen for the angel to see, and on it was a very similar box indeed, if maybe a little smaller and neater than the one that Aziraphale had seen.

“Yes! That’s it! Oh, Crowley, you are so _clever_!” It was delightful, the way he flushed at the praise. “What on earth is it, then?”

Crowley was back to flicking through his phone. “It’s a ‘phrenic nerve stimulator’.”

Aziraphale frowned, scanning through his encyclopedialike knowledge for the meaning of the term.

“It says here that it, ‘applies electrical impulses to the diaphragm to provide-”

“Artificial ventilatory support! Yes, dear, it’s a diaphragmatic pacemaker! Of course!”

“A respirator?”

Beaming at their joint cleverness, Aziraphale nodded. “Of sorts, yes. It stimulates the diaphragm, causing the chest cavity to expand and a breath to be taken. It _pulls_ air into the lungs, the opposite of a more traditional ventilator which _pushes_ the air in.”

Crowley glanced back at his screen and then up into Aziraphale’s face, “You think Grainger needs one of these to help him breathe?” He looked far from convinced. “But – you said it was in the cupboard? Not doing much good in there, is it?”

The beaming stuttered a little. “Yes, but… maybe he has more than one?”

Shaking his head, Crowley returned to his scrolling, “But we’d have seen it, surely? It’s not small. And Grainger does not yell like a person who needs help with his breathing, he- Oh… wait.”

Eagerly, Aziraphale leaned closer, “What?”

Crowley scrolled further. “It says here that it can provide ‘interim respiratory support in cases of severe sleep apnea’.”

“Sleep apnea,” Aziraphale repeated. “Where the patient can stop breathing in their sleep. In extreme cases, it can cause death and,” he met Crowley’s eyes again, “it can come on as a consequence of a stroke.”

Leaning back in his seat, Crowley considered this. “Well, that all seems very likely,” he admitted, “Grainger has come away with sleep apnea after his stroke and needs a back-up to keep him breathing – but I don’t really see that it helps our cause.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, folding his notebook and sliding it away. “A dead end. What a shame. Well, I suppose it’s back to the coalface, my dear. Are you ready?”

Like liquid obsidian, Crowley rose to his feet and smiled Aziraphale’s way. “Of course,” he replied, gesturing to the door. “After you.”

Returning the smile and grabbing just one more Danish pastry as he went, Aziraphale led them out.

~~*~~ 

“Do you actually think that anyone really will kill Grainger?”

It was late afternoon and Crowley and Aziraphale were standing at the drinks table in the games room, watching the two separate tables and their rubbers of bridge. The morning had proved useful if not entirely successful. Grainger had more or less left them alone, spending his time with Annabel in the conservatory, before summoning them to join everyone for lunch. They’d used their time constructively, checking out the faux balcony (it didn’t stretch around to any of the other rooms) and the access from the roof (very slippery slate tiles and no evidence that anyone had been up there in years). They had also tried (unsuccessfully) to get another look at the diaphragmatic pacemaker in the cupboard – just to make sure.

Back in the dining room for a hot lunch of cock-a-leekie soup, Aziraphale was disheartened to find themselves the centre of attention once more. Looks and whispers aplenty were sent their way but Crowley appeared not to notice, and nobody said anything outright to either of them, so it was easy enough to ignore. Following that, the planned archery session was abandoned due to the driving rain and bridge was accepted as a suitable alternative, suitable for Aziraphale since the numbers provided him with the perfect excuse to stay close to Crowley’s side, the pair of them watching the remaining suspects, desperately hoping that something said or done by _somebody_ would finally tip them off. They were running out of time – there was only one more night after this one, the night of the grand birthday dinner, and then that would be it. Maybe they wouldn’t get paid after all – but then, maybe there was no money to pay them regardless. It hardly mattered either way, the only things holding them here at all was Crowley’s professional pride.

Crowley turned his way, his expression thoughtful. “I don’t know. At first I did, but there seems to be nothing concrete to be gained from it, not when you factor in that Grainger is on his way down. So, I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Aziraphale pondered that. “But who knows he’s on his way down, I wonder? The close family certainly, but otherwise? I can’t see Grainger wanting to make that news public. And if it’s a crime of passion,” he shrugged, “being broke won’t change that.”

A dry laugh left Crowley’s lips. “A crime of passion, angel? I didn’t think you believed they existed.”

“Don’t forget that the Lyons lost their daughter whilst she was working for Grainger.”

“Could have been anything. And would killing him bring her back?”

Slowly, Aziraphale met his gaze. “Do you honestly think that anything in a crime of passion would be rational?”

They slid into silence, sipping their drinks and watching the other guests.

“Casino night tonight,” Crowley commented and Aziraphale wondered if it was the first time he had heard him discussing gambling and alcohol in such an unenthusiastic manner. “Who should we concentrate on?”

Aziraphale let out a long breath, he wanted to say Fabio and Elsie, he _really_ wanted to say them, but there was still not one shred of anything that linked them to any of this mess. “Well, the Lyons I suppose,” he volunteered. “And Ada? Karalina?”

“And Shepherd,” Crowley added. “Okay. Once we’ve eaten tonight, we split up and mingle. You take Ada and the Lyons, I’ll do Shepherd and Karalina.”

It wasn’t a plan that Aziraphale particularly liked – but time was running short and so what options did they have?

~~*~~

After a short tempered and dismal afternoon of bridge, the guests returned to their rooms to change for the casino night. Crowley had been happy to take his place as Grainger’s guard of honour, but he was sent packing by a grim-faced Annabel who told him that her father would be perfectly safe in her care for the interval.

“Still think she’s off the hook, angel?” Crowley drawled as they made their way back to their rooms.

The walk along the silent corridors awakened anxious butterflies in Aziraphale’s stomach. This would be their first opportunity for privacy since their rather tumultuous admissions the night before. In his mind’s eye, the bed loomed large once again, but he was still unsure how to instigate any of that, and Crowley had seemed to prefer to wait until they were back in London. He risked a flickered glance sideways, and Crowley seemed impassive, for once he could not even hazard a guess as to what was going on in that complex, demonic mind.

The rooms arrived far faster than Aziraphale was prepared for, but thank goodness for Crowley who let them both in through Aziraphale’s door without showing any of the nerves that were eating Aziraphale alive. The second the door was closed behind them, however, he moved, tugging his glasses off and instantly folding himself around the angel, pressing them up close to together, his face pushed into an angelic neck and then sighing – the long, low sigh of one coming home at the end of a very long, and very trying, day.

Without thought, Aziraphale returned the embrace, wrapping his own arms around those angular shoulders and pulling them even closer together, resting his cheek against Crowley’s for a moment, before twisting to press a kiss to his temple then relaxing against him once more.

“Is this alright, angel?” and how could Aziraphale have ever thought that Crowley _wasn’t_ nervous?

“Of course, darling, it’s more than alright. I’ve wanted to hold you all day.”

Crowley laughed a little at that, the slightest of disbelieving huffs. “When we get back to London,” he whispered into Aziraphale’s neck, “we’re not going out for a month. We’re going to sit on that sofa in the bookshop and hold each other – and that’s it. Nothing else.”

Well, that seemed to twist the ‘fun stuff’ assumptions Aziraphale had made right on their heads, but he couldn’t find it in his head to be disappointed though, not when his heart ached at the beautiful innocence of that statement. “That sounds delightful, my darling,” he huffed his own laugh at the next thing that occurred to him. “But what will we do about eating?”

A louder burst of laughter from Crowley this time, joyful enough to ignite a louder burst of love in his own chest. “You don’t need to eat, angel.”

  
  
“And you don’t need to sleep.”

Adjusting his position to press his lips up against the part of Aziraphale where collar met neck, Crowley’s words felt warm on that tiny sliver of skin. “Well, maybe I’ll let you call for takeout whilst I sleep on you?”

Aziraphale could think of nothing better.

“Are you tired now?” he asked after they had stood and hugged in silence for another few minutes.

He felt Crowley shrug against him. “Er… no. I’m okay. Really.”

He wasn’t convincing and Aziraphale had another thought. “Oh,” he offered as he adjusted his hold on his demon. “It’s just that I really wanted to read another chapter or so of my book, and I was thinking that you could get some practise in now? Sleeping on me? If you wanted?” he tried to make it sound ever so casual when really, his heart was threatening to pound out of his chest.

There was a long and heavy silence and then Crowley lifted his head and Aziraphale could see the red rims to his eyes, the dark shadows beneath and he nodded and Aziraphale unable to stop the way his face lit up at the thought. “Oh, wonderful!” he almost blathered out some fabricated comment about how enthused he was to be able to read his chapter, but then he realised that they didn’t need to do that anymore. “You, my dear, are the only thing in creation that could possibly improve a good book.”

Flushing a little at the praise, Crowley extracted himself and, together, they made for the sofa in front of the fire.

It was a little awkward at first with much shuffling and muttered apologies at errant elbows or knees, but finally they were still. It wasn’t quite as cosy as Aziraphale had been hoping, however. Crowley’s chin was pressing into the fleshy part just behind his knee, and he was having to hold his book uncomfortably in the air, rather than dropping it down in front of Crowley’s face. Crowley seemed less than settled as well, constantly adjusting his position, a centimetre this way, a centimetre that, and still he was as stiff as a board. Finally, just as Aziraphale was going to suggest that they abandon their plan, Crowley let out a long sigh and shifted again, flipping over onto his other side this time, pressing his face into the softness of Aziraphale’s stomach, drawing his knees up to the back of the sofa and instantly deflating like an punctured balloon. His long breath of ease pulled a smile across Aziraphale’s face and he found that he could easily hold his book with an arm resting on Crowley’s shoulder and a hand gently stroking through his hair. “Is this better, my dearest?” he asked softly, and Crowley muttered an embarrassed sounding answer into his waistcoat. Aziraphale’s smile widened and he found his place in the book and, right beneath his fingertips, Crowley fell fast asleep. 

Once Crowley was settled, little huffs of air being puffed against his stomach, Aziraphale stopped even pretending to read and carefully placed his book down on the arm of the sofa. Ever so slowly so that he wouldn’t disturb his sleeping snake, he lifted his legs up on the table in front of him and relaxed back into the cushions, enjoying the warmth of the fire on his face and the feel of Crowley’s hair against his fingers. It was bliss, for once in their lives just existing like this and, determinedly, Aziraphale put every thought of Grainger and every other distasteful human out of his mind and just let himself drift.

Time moved on though, as it generally did, and the chiming of the clock in the corridor outside brought him back to the cold realisation that they had to move again; that they had to get up and head back out into civilisation once more and spend time working out which odious human was trying to murder another odious human. But then, afterwards, they could go home and they would, as Crowley had said, spend a month in the bookshop together, just learning how to _be_ together, without anyone else getting in their way.

But for now… “Crowley, darling?” pressing his spine back into the sofa, Aziraphale stroked at the uppermost of Crowley’s cheeks, allowing his finger tips to trail up to a sharp cheek bone and along the line of a fine nose, before retracing its path and tickling up across that familiar tattoo, and into the short hair beyond. “We need to get going. Dinner is in twenty minutes. Are you wanting a shower?”

Crowley, perfect student of human life that he was, often chose to clean himself the human way, he said that it woke him up better than anything else, which made perfect sense when you considered that sleep wasn’t something he needed either. 

“Wanna stay here.”

The words were muttered into Aziraphale’s stomach, and he wasn’t quite sure how awake Crowley was to say them. But he understood the feeling well. “I know, love,” the use of that word sent a thrill through him. “Last couple of days, yes? And then we can go home.”

A single, yellow eye flicked open to look up at him and, again, Aziraphale’s stomach swooped. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, brushing back strands of red hair. “Your eyes are simply stunning.”

Turning his head ever so slightly, Crowley looked at him, his gaze so intense that Aziraphale found his fingers stuttering to a halt, his eyes drawn to Crowley’s, the swooping in his stomach morphing into something stronger, something _heated_ and visceral and-

Crowley closed his eyes again and twisted away, up off the sofa and Aziraphale’s lap, his usual saunter slightly unsteady as he headed for his own room, a, “Going in the shower,” thrown over his shoulder as he went.

Left behind, Aziraphale sat, a little short of breath, before realising that he needed a shower too. A cold one.

~~*~~


	12. "I’ll explain everything when we get home."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some names get crossed off the list of suspects. Does that mean that our intrepid detectives will be able to go home and work on something more important than this case?????
> 
> ~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobic sentiments expressed by a minor character, and reference to depression and implied suicide of another minor character.

~~*~~

Ten minutes later and Aziraphale was composed once more, standing in front of the mirror in his room and frowning at his reflection. He had brought his trusty dinner suite with him for this event, as Crowley had told him that both tonight, and the grand birthday evening tomorrow, were black tie events, but – he hadn’t worn it for a number of years, not since he’d attended the opening of the Van Gogh exhibition at the National Gallery, and now he was thinking it was looking a little too… Heavenly. 

He tugged it down and twisted a little in the mirror. White jacket, white shirt, white tie, white trousers, it was all his usual aesthetic, but now, something just didn’t sit well with him about it. ‘ _You look like you’re selling ice creams, angel_.’ He smiled at the voice in his head, but conceded that, maybe, imaginary-Crowley did have a point, and Crowley had said black tie, not white, so maybe? With a thought, his bow tie became black and he found himself carefully appraising the change. Okay. Not bad. Still not quite right though… The buttons on his shirt were the next to go, then his knife-pleated trousers, then his shoes, morphing into such a shiny patent that he could see his face in them. Going the whole hog, he changed the jacket as well, frowning again at the image in his mirror as memories of that disastrous birthday party for Warlock swam into view. He turned it white again, and then to ever such a shade of off-white, far closer to his usual palette of cream and then, yes. That was it, that was perfect. Still him, but just… less. He smiled.

Behind him, the adjoining door opened up and he turned around. “Perfect timing, dear boy,” he started. “Leaving now means that we-” and then he stopped, his words stolen by the sight before him.

Crowley liked a black-tie event, and, as usual, he liked to put his own slant on the dress code. They had attended many of the same events over the years, not together of course, they could never risk anything together, but the same events, wiling and thwarting as they did, and so he’d come to know and very much appreciate Crowley’s preferred formal attire. Black tie, obviously, but also black shirt, black dinner suit, black shoes, black glasses. “Black heart,” he’d joked once to Aziraphale who, of course, knew that that was so far from the actual truth. And he looked good in it, but then Aziraphale always thought that Crowley looked good.

This evening though… Crowley was standing in the doorway between their rooms, lacking a little of his usual swagger as he no doubt noticed Aziraphale’s open-mouthed stare. It seemed to be the same suit that he always manifested for these occasions, based on a Tom Ford he’d seen in a window in Oxford Street, neat and streamlined, highlighting his slight shape to perfection, the darkest black, his usual boots, a little more polished than before maybe, but where he usually went with a black shirt and a stubbornly thin and traditional black tie, he’d obviously, for some reason, decided to shift a little from tradition and was standing there looking stunningly beautiful in a _white_ shirt and a black bow tie. Traditionally _human_ , Aziraphale’s mind filled in for him. Maybe his usual choices had proved just a little too… _Hellish_ for him now?

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice, choked as it was, pulled Aziraphale from his reverie and back into the moment and he blinked through his staring, pushing out a smile Crowley’s way, knowing he probably looked stupidly smitten. “You look _stunning_.” And just like that, Aziraphale was caught again, swamped, not only by Crowley’s beauty and their twin deviations from the norm, but by the words he had used. Stunning? No one had ever called Aziraphale _stunning_ before, no one. Was that really what Crowley thought of him?

The moment pulled out, the pair of them staring and gawping like a couple of teenagers and then Crowley seemed to rouse himself, shaking off his stupor and gesturing to the door to the corridor. “Last couple of days,” he echoed, his voice rough. “And then we can go home.”

His legs on autopilot, Aziraphale stepped out into the corridor knowing that he had not _ever_ looked forward to something more.

~~*~~

Dinner that evening was a trying event. In deference to their previously agreed plan, Aziraphale seated himself in the empty space next to Gloria Lyons, whilst Crowley, much to his consternation, slithered to the far end of the table and into the seat next to the odious Fabio. For a moment, Aziraphale was speechless. Fabio and Elsie had _not_ been on the plan for this evening, Crowley had said that he was going to focus on Karalina and James – surely, he couldn’t have forgotten? Distracted by Gloria asking him if he had had a pleasant afternoon, Aziraphale turned away from the head of the table, only to glance back mere moments later to find that the seating arrangement had changed yet again, and now Crowley was firmly ensconced in the chair between Fabio and Elsie, the pair of them hovering over him like well turned out flies. The significance of that was not lost on him.

Frustration fought with anger deep in his chest and his own words, _‘Last couple of days_ ,’ swirled through his head. Well, if Crowley was going to veer off-task and neglect his duties in finishing with this damn case, Aziraphale was _not_. With a sigh, he determinedly turned his back on the far end of the table and brought forth his most dazzling smile on the hapless Gloria at his side.

~~*~~

Aziraphale sat back in his seat and sighed in total and utter frustration as he watched Gloria Lyons, with tears still standing in her eyes, accompany her husband out of the dining room to head up for their early night. There was nothing like rehashing the details of their beloved daughter’s probable-suicide with a complete stranger to ruin a casino night and Aziraphale felt a complete and utter cad for putting them both through it. A quick blessing followed them out of the door, and he hoped that it would be enough to ensure them a peaceful night and steadier progress on their journey of accepting a world without Florence in it.

As far as Aziraphale was concerned though, it did mean that Gloria and Geraint were both off the list. Florence had been a troubled young lady, fighting a desperate fight on too many fronts. The move to London from the Lyons family home on the South Coast was supposed to have been a fresh start for her, something she had really wanted for herself and one that Grainger had helped facilitate. Tragically, it hadn’t worked out that way. London had not been what Florence had been expecting, or what she had needed at that point in her life and had seemed to trigger yet more feelings of hopelessness within her. She had eventually returned home, but the damage wrought was too severe. Despite everything that everyone had tried, including Florence herself, her parents felt that, one night, it was just all too much for her. Florence hadn’t wanted to die, they maintained, she’d just wanted to stop feeling as terrible as she did.

It was a dreadfully sad, and dreadfully common, story.

First task achieved for the night, Aziraphale tried to shake off the feeling of sorrow that hung around him, and started to push to his feet, intent on part two of his task and searching for Ada. He had wondered if she would be attending the clear up of the dining room once everyone headed into the drawing room and the makeshift casino. If so, he could offer to help her, maybe engage her in conversation again, even though it was clear that it had always been Crowley who had been her favourite.

It was then, as he pushed his chair back underneath the table, that Aziraphale noticed the folded napkin that had been placed on the table at his elbow – behind him, the way that he had been twisted towards Gloria. He had not noticed as it had been placed there, but he couldn’t miss it now, couldn’t miss the two little horns and the spikey tail that had been drawn on it – he rolled his eyes and snatched it up.

There was a message inside, and not one that Aziraphale was thrilled to receive. He read it through three times before sighing and pushing it deep into his pocket.

‘ _I need to do something._ ’

Could Crowley have been more vague than that?

‘ _I might be a couple of hours._ ’

Yes – apparently, he could.

‘ _Stick with Grainger. I’ll explain everything when we get home._ ’

Home. Aziraphale had never longed for the book shop and Crowley’s company so much in their entire shared history. It was a longing so strong, it physically hurt. 

Almost as if that very longing for the demon had conjured him up, Aziraphale’s sweep of the room jammed to a halt at seeing that familiar red head bent in conversation with another in the corridor just beyond. Leaning forward a little, Aziraphale’s heart stuttered at realising who it was. Not Fabio or Elsie, thank goodness, but James Shepherd, and a James Shepherd who seemed to be nothing short of furious.

Stepping forward for a better look, Aziraphale could see that they were definitely arguing and, more than that, Crowley was upset. Six thousand years of observation meant that the angel could read the planes and angles, the lines and creases, of Crowley’s expressions almost as clearly as a written postcard, and those lines on his forehead shouted a story all of their own. Yes, Crowley was supposed to be talking to James, checking out how serious he was in his threats to ‘sort’ Grainger out, but they were not supposed to be arguing. James was not supposed to be hissing in Crowley’s face like that, and Crowley was not supposed to be looking so dreadfully distressed about it all. He stepped forward, damning the moment that Crowley ever agreed to take this case and was forced to jerk to a stop as Niles Bridgewater stepped in front of him.

“Fell,” his deep voice rumbled through the room and his wide chest effectively blocked Crowley and James from his sight. “Not leaving so soon, are you?”

Frowning, Aziraphale attempted to step around him. “Apologies, Mr. Bridgewater, but I-”

“Niles, please,” Bridgewater’s bulk seemed to swell as he neatly cut off Aziraphale’s view again and, irritated, Aziraphale lifted his gaze to stare into that amused expression, all white teeth and false courtesy and his frustration with the evening, his worry for Crowley, seemed to triple.

“Niles,” Aziraphale pressed out from taut lips. “If you will excuse me-”

“I wondered if you were planning on playing a round of poker later on?” his gaze slid to Aziraphale’s dinner suit and his lip curled. “Strip or otherwise. I think you will make a good playing partner.”

The anger peaked to new heights and Aziraphale fixed Bridgewater with the coldest glare he could manage, whilst simultaneously wrapping himself in Crowley’s breathed, _‘you look stunning’_. “You mean that you think I will be an easy target to take money from,” he countered flatly. Niles raised an eyebrow and deepened his smirk. Aziraphale shook his head. “If you will excuse me, I don’t have time for this. I need to go and find my friend and we-”

“And to think,” Bridgewater’s voice was designed to be loud enough to carry to those around them, “that I worried you were sniffing around my _wife_. I should have realised that your tastes lay in other, more _deviant_ , directions.”

Having finally succeeding at managing to navigate his way around Bridgewater and his bulk, Aziraphale froze once more, turning slowly and taking in the arrogant sneer of perceived success that was being thrown his way. He didn’t have time for this, but some things could not be allowed to slide and so he stepped back in again, closer than would have been considered polite, and let just enough angelic ire shine in his eyes to wipe that grin off those obnoxious lips at once. “There is nothing deviant about the love of one being for another,” he hissed. “ _Any_ other. And if I had been ‘sniffing’ around your wife, it would have been because she is an intelligent and interesting young lady, far too good for the likes of you and your snivelling excuse for a personality.” Bridgewater took a step back and Aziraphale followed him, brightening his stare just a tad more. “In fact, the moment that you get back to London you will grant her the divorce she requires, under any terms she likes, do you understand?” Nodding dumbly, unable to resist the suggestion from an angel, Bridgewater’s throat tightened in a compulsive swallow, terrified of something he didn’t even understand. “And, following that, you will never darken her door again. Do I make myself absolutely clear on all of those facts?”

“Y-yes, yes, of course.”

In future moments of reflection, Aziraphale would enjoy the fear in those words. “Right then,” but that evening, he had other, far more important things to concern him. “Out of my way.” Instantly, Bridgewater complied, staggering dazedly, to one side, already wondering if it were too late in the evening to start drafting divorce papers but Aziraphale didn’t notice any of that, his eyes scanning the empty corridor outside as his heart thumped uncomfortably against his ribs.

There was no one there. No one. Not a soul. Not even when Aziraphale strode outside and turned on the spot three times. “Oh… botheration…” Where had he gone? Where would he go? He was supposed to be here, they were supposed to be wrapping this stupid case up _together_ and going home. Where had the damned obdurate demon gone this time? Blowing out a long, determined breath, Aziraphale swallowed his frustration and turned towards the casino. He could have gone in there, he reasoned, he might just be waiting for Aziraphale, waiting to tell him all about his conversation with James, to tell him they were done and could leave _now_.

He wasn’t. Grainger was in there, laughing loudly at a poker table with Samuel and Pratik, whilst Niles was standing up against the curtains, untouched drink in his hand and troubled expression on his face. Karalina, Helen, Annabel and Rebecca were at the roulette wheel, Karalina seeming happier than Aziraphale had ever seen her, whilst Jeremy Weir was playing Blackjack against the dealer. It seemed that Gloria and Geraint had given up on the night following their dinner stuck with an angel of gloom, whilst James, Annabel, Fabio and Crowley were all far too conspicuous by their absence. Aziraphale sighed, running his eyes over and over the faces in the room, desperate to see what just wasn’t there and then, wondering how on earth Grainger planned on paying for any of this extravaganza, he turned to head back to the dining room and his original plan to find Ada.

“Aziraphale,” the voice came from behind and he startled, spinning around to find James Shepherd standing there, a glass of something bubbly in both hands, and a smile on his face that, somehow, Aziraphale didn’t quite like. “There you are,” the smile widened. “I was looking for you. Here, I’ve got you this.” The glass was pushed Aziraphale’s way and he took it, eyes already skipping around behind them looking, again, for Crowley.

“James, how delightful to see you. You will have to excuse me though, my dear, I really do need to go and find-”

“Crowley?” James’ smile was bordering on obscenely smug. “It’s okay,” taking Aziraphale’s arm, he led them both to the sofas at the far end of the room and sat them down. “You don’t have to worry about Crowley anymore. I said that I would sort it for you, and I have.”

Iced water ran down Aziraphale’s spine at those words and, halting his desperate scanning for Crowley, he turned to James and held him in a steady gaze. “What do you mean?” he had to concentrate to make sure that his voice stayed steady and calm. “What does _that_ mean? You’ve _sorted_ it?”

Leaning back into the corner of the sofa and crossing one knee over the other, James took a triumphant sip of his drink and shrugged. “Sorted it. Sorted him. He won’t be bothering you anymore.”

Aziraphale swallowed and leaned forward, placing his glass down on the table in front of them. “He was never _bothering me_ , anyway.”

James looked at him, his head tilted to one side, sympathy dripping from every pore. “It’s okay. You don’t have to pretend anymore. Not to me.”

Aziraphale stared at him, struggling to parse what on earth James thought he was saying. “Pretend?” he was unsure whether he should feel more outraged or terrified.

Sighing, James swung his foot down onto the floor once more and leaned in, elbows on his knees, his cornflower-blue eyes boring into Aziraphale’s wide ones. “I was just like you, once,” he whispered and Aziraphale felt his eyes widen further.

“Like me?” An angel in love with a demon? He doubted that.

“Yes. In a toxic relationship. An _abusive_ relationship. It took me a long time to see it as well. It’s very common.”

“It’s not!” Aziraphale could barely get the words out of his mouth. “We’re not! I mean, _we are_ ,” suddenly that was very important to clarify, “but _he’s_ not. Abusive, I mean. He’s not!”

Sympathy creased James’ face. “Aziraphale, I was there. I heard what he said to you. The way he mocked you, insulted you, in front of all these others as well.” He shrugged then, and Aziraphale wondered how he had ever thought that James was _sweet_. “So I told him. I told him how much he’d hurt you. How much you wanted to leave him, how _often_ you had tried to leave him and yet couldn’t quite break free.”

“What?! What on earth do you mean by that??? I have never tried to leave him, _never_!”

James blinked, wrong-footed for the first time. “But you said,” he frowned. “The other day. I told you to leave him and you said that you had tried, and it was impossible-”

“Ignoring him,” Aziraphale nipped the bridge of his nose, “I said that _ignoring_ him was impossible.” It was. Crowley was just too intriguing to ignore.

Snatching his glass up again, James took an aggressive swallow, downing half of it in one go. “Well, I told him anyway. Told him what you really thought of him. Seemed to be a bit of a shock to him, let me tell you.”  
  
Aziraphale pushed to his feet. “Oh, James, you should _not_ have done that. Where is he? Where did he go?”

James rose alongside him, all pretence of sympathy gone. “Why do you care?”  
  


“Because you are meddling in things you do not understand! He will be _hurt_!”

“Hurt? Ha!” the laugh was bitter and mocking. “Hurt is he? Is that why he snuck off with Fabio and Elsie then?” he shook his head. “You have no idea how he is taking you for a ride. If he has managed to fool you with his lies and deceit so far, surely his choice of companions should tip you off that he is not all that he seems? Like befriends like, after all.”

Aziraphale had started to turn away, he had no time for any of this, but James’ final words pulled him up short. “ _Like befriends like_?” He turned back, his heart pounding in his chest again. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Suddenly, James looked a little less sure of himself, a little more on unstable ground. He fidgeted slightly, flicking a quick look around them to see who might possibly be listening to them. “Well,” his voice was low, unsteady. “Surely you have heard what’s been said about them?”

“No,” Aziraphale ground out. “I haven’t. Perhaps you would like to enlighten me?”

For the briefest of moments, it looked as if James was going to do just that, if he was going to lean in and drip all of that insidious poison out of his lips and into Aziraphale’s ears, but instead he shrugged, and perhaps realising that _not_ telling was just as cruel, the malice, the rejection, the need to strike _back_ was all still there in his eyes. “Enlighten you? As to what your _non-abusive_ boyfriend’s new friends are getting up to? With him, no doubt?”

“James…”

Another pause, drawing the moment out, and then… “Why should I, Aziraphale? You’re obviously not ready to hear it yet.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “What?”

“This is a journey that you are on. And the first step of that journey is in realising that you are a victim, and he is a perpetrator, and all of this time that you thought he loved you he just _didn’t_. He hurt you and used you for whatever he could get from you, all the while pretending that you were something more than a _solution_ for him.” James was on a roll now, his eyes flashing, bright spots of red standing on his cheeks, and, despite himself, Aziraphale felt that old, familiar flicker of doubt deep in his chest. “I’ve told him this, and now I am telling you. This is a common pattern, the arrogant dominant, the weak submissive. You need to find a back bone and walk out on him, find someone who appreciates you for what you are, who doesn’t mind the fact that you are carrying a bit of extra weight rather than tormenting you over it.”

Without permission, Aziraphale felt his cheeks flare red and he made the huge effort of reining all his human emotions, his physiological reactions, back under control. How could he have been so taken in by this fool? How could he have thought him sweet? _Good_? Crowley had more good in the tips of his fingers than this idiot had in his entire body. “What?” the anger made his voice firm, _solid_. “Someone like _you_ , I would presume?”

James stared at him, and just for a moment, all of that arrogance faltered, taking a good chunk of Aziraphale’s anger with it. “You could do a lot worse than me,” he replied.

Sighing, Aziraphale closed his eyes, _he did not have time for this_. “I could,” he admitted slowly. “But you are not the one for me, James, we are both destined for others.”

“Who? _Crowley?_ ” James had tears standing in his eyes and was starting to look a little like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum.

Aziraphale drew himself up. “Yes. Crowley. You don’t know him, and you don’t know us, and I know that he has loved me deeper and longer than any other being has ever loved before. Things have been _complicated_ , but we are working on that and, as soon as we are done with this dreadful place, we will get the chance to move forward. Together.”

Silence fell and, for a moment, Aziraphale wondered if he had done enough to convince James of Crowley’s worth but then all he got was a shake of his head and a whispered, “You are delusional.”

Abruptly, Aziraphale was _done_. “And you are wrong. Are you going to tell me where he has gone?” James just stared at him and so Aziraphale turned away. “Good day to you then, Mr. Shepherd.”

“The Garden of Eden.”

Stopping, his heart thumping once again at the strangely apt non-sequitur, Aziraphale turned on the spot. “Pardon?”

James was holding a business card out to him. “The Garden of Eden,” he repeated. “The promised land. It’s a support group, in London, for people who actually want something better than the love they thought they had,” he shrugged. “When you are ready, you might find it helpful.”

Aziraphale sagged; damn James and all of his erroneous beliefs, underneath it all he was trying to be kind. He took the card, “Thank you,” and walked away, dropping it in the bin in the corridor on his way out.

~~*~~


	13. "Not very angelic, angel."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the week-long celebration of Grainger's birthday draws to a close, the stress is mounting for Crowley and Aziraphale as they realise that time is running very short...

For at least the seventeenth time in the last hour, Aziraphale sighed as he leaned against the doorframe, watching the guests in the makeshift casino. He had no real idea what Grainger had had in mind when he had planned his evening, but surely it hadn’t been this? Half of his guests, James included, missing from the festivities, Bridgewater, and strangely Annabel, both looking as if they were having the worst nights of their lives, Samuel and Jeremy trying to drown their monetary worries in alcohol paid for on credit, Aziraphale himself standing on the edges of the room, glaring at everyone… Hardly worth the effort, to which Grainger seemed to agree if the sour expression on his face was anything to go by.

Since spotting him arguing in the corridor with James, Crowley had continued to be AWOL; Aziraphale did not accept a scrawled note on a napkin as suitable explanation for vanishing. Especially since Elsie and Fabio were also strikingly unseen – a fact that Aziraphale considered at best, hardly helpful, at worst, downright terrifying. But, for now, Aziraphale would acquiesce to Crowley’s request and would stay close to Grainger’s side. For now. Not that he had any idea where to start looking for Crowley anyway, not after his quick sweep of the house had proved fruitless. So much for going home.

Midnight was fast approaching, and it became clear that the casino staff were starting to pack up for the night. Helen, Rebecca and Karalina bid their goodnights and headed off into the corridors, whilst Annabel snippily told her father that she would wait for him in his rooms. Grainger himself simply commandeered a decanter of scotch and rolled himself towards the sofas at the end of the room, gesturing for Pratik, Jeremy, Niles and Samuel to join him. He ignored Aziraphale completely, which was fine by the angel who seated himself on the windowsill at the other side of the room where he had a clear view of the room, the corridor beyond and the darkened garden below, and then he waited. 

The men around the fire seemed to be deriving little pleasure from their evening as Aziraphale silently watched them. Or maybe, for them, this was what counted as fun, sitting around and sniping cruelly at each other and the world around them. Their banter was far colder and more cutting than banter ever should be, and Aziraphale could not help but compare the blatant bitchiness with the evenings that he and Crowley had spent together over the years. It continually astounded him how Crowley could ever be seen as the real demon when humans like this existed.

A flicker of movement outside caught his eye and, twisting his body to block out as much of the light as possible, Aziraphale leaned against the glass, scanning the lawns outside. There it was again, a figure for certain, walking away from the house, frustratingly in the shadows and, not for the first time, Aziraphale wished he had Crowley’s perfect night vision. He leaned in a little closer and then, just for a moment, the figure strode through the rectangle of light spilling from a second-floor window and was lit up to perfection. It was only for a moment, just the quickest of flashes, but it was all that Aziraphale needed. He might not have night vision, but he did have an almost photographic memory and he examined it now, his heart thudding against his chest, knowing that he might just have glimpsed the one clue they had been looking for, the one clue that could finally get this whole case solved. All he needed now was Crowley.

~~*~~

He didn’t have to wait long. Half an hour later and the demon appeared, trying to slide in through the double doors as unobtrusively as possible, and failing miserably.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Grainger groused the moment his eyes fell on Crowley. “You really are the worst fucking waste of money ever.”

For a moment, Aziraphale was sure that Crowley was going to bite back, was going to make an acidic comment about Grainger and his monetary situation and tell him where he could shove both his job and his bullying attitude. He didn’t though, which disappointed Aziraphale, leaving now could have seen them back at the bookshop for breakfast.

“I’ve been busy,” was all he allowed himself as he stalked around the edges of the room, making a beeline for Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale took a moment to check him over, to run his eye, expertly, up and down his lithe form, checking for injuries, yes, but also using the way he was holding himself, the way he was walking as a barometer for his emotional state. _Shaken_ , was what Aziraphale came up with, _rattled_ – and by something more than Grainger’s barbs.

“All right, my dear?” Grainger and his drinking buddies were finishing up for the night and Aziraphale was keen to take the opportunity to talk to Crowley before his attention was demanded by Grainger once more.

Crowley looked at him, Aziraphale could feel the gaze right through the darkened shades of his glasses. “I am now,” his voice was quiet, beaten down, and the honest sentiment behind his words was eclipsed by the worry that swirled in Aziraphale at that tone. “And I think we might, finally, have cracked this damn case wide open,” there was no joy in that statement, not for either of them. The joy in this case had well and truly fled. “When Grainger goes to bed, I’ll update you with what I have found, and we can plan how we get this whole nightmare wrapped up.”

Aziraphale blinked, of all the things that Crowley could have said, that hadn’t been high on Aziraphale’s lists of possible. He didn’t even get chance to slot in a ‘me too’ before Grainger was barking across the room at them again. “Crowley?”

Slowly, contemptuously, Crowley turned his way. “What?”

“Are you taking up your post in my rooms again, tonight?”

Again, a pause, “Yes. We both are.”  
  
Aziraphale watched then, as Grainger seemed to flounder like the fish for a moment, and then he found his ire once again, directed it Crowley’s way with ease. “Like hell you are,” he spat and Aziraphale’s stomach tightened. “You think it’s a free for all, do you? A show you can invite all your _friends_ to? Come and stare at the old man in his wheelchair?”

Grainger was more drunk than he had originally seemed, but still, his anger was something hot and desperate and not entirely easy to understand. Yes, Aziraphale could appreciate that he wanted his dignity preserving but still, neither of them were wanting to go anywhere near him in his actual bedroom. He could feel Crowley prickling beside him though, had the strangest feeling that his love was very close to his own edge after his evening’s activities and so he interjected as quickly as he could, as smoothly as he could.

“Understandable sentiments,” he soothed. “We apologise if any offence was taken. Of course Crowley should attend to you on his own.” Crowley threw him a sharp glance and Aziraphale, expressionless, stared back. It was enough though, enough that Crowley understood that Aziraphale would come to him, as soon as they had given Grainger time to fall asleep.

“Damn right he will,” Grainger muttered. “The money I’m paying him.”

With a discrete squeeze to his elbow from Aziraphale’s fingers, Crowley let that slide as he made his way over to take hold of the handles of Grainger’s wheelchair and push him from the room.

~~*~~

Waiting a full hour to give Grainger the chance to fall asleep was hard work for Aziraphale, lurking, as he was along the corridor like the most proficient of demons. Annabel had left the rooms twenty minutes after Grainger and Crowley had entered, crying again, her faced blotchy and tearstained and Aziraphale found himself wondering why she persevered with the old goat, and then wondered why they themselves did, when it was blatantly obvious that they wouldn’t get paid at the end of this case.

Finally, he could stand it no longer and, creeping silently along the corridor, he tapped at the door with the pads of his fingers. It opened immediately, yanked inwards and replaced by a pale and drawn-looking Crowley who grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist and tugged him into the room without preamble. “Here,” a gin and tonic, ice clinking, was shoved into his hand and then Crowley turned, collapsing back onto the sofa with his eyes closed and his own glass tight in his hand. “I think we both need this,” he muttered, “I am so very, very done with this whole place.”

Concern warred with relief that they were both on the same page and Aziraphale slowly lowered himself, very deliberately, onto the sofa at his side, allowing their legs to press up close together as he took a sip of the perfectly made drink. “Quite,” he agreed, scanning up and down Crowley’s crumpled attire. “How was he when he went to bed? Are you sure that he is asleep?”

“Sure,” Crowley replied from behind his closed eyelids. “I stayed until he was. He’s told me to wake him at six thirty a.m. ‘sharp’. And you were right about the breathing device, by the way. Annabel told me. He gets hooked up every night. Without it, he can stop breathing over and over again. He’d die any night of the week if it wasn’t there to keep him going.”

Aziraphale shuddered at the flimsy nature of human lives. “No wonder Helen was so keen to keep it a secret, then,” he muttered. “It’s not the sort of information you want bandying around when someone is making threats against your life.”

“No,” Crowley looked on the edge of sleep himself. “I suppose not.”

They slid into silence at that, but Aziraphale was waiting, Crowley had said that he knew who was behind all the threats, if that was so, why weren’t they packing up? “So,” guilt prickled at the edges of his thoughts, he should let Crowley sleep, he was obviously exhausted, but the temptation to get this whole thing _done_ with was huge and only growing all the larger. “What did you want to tell me, my dear? Are are done here, now? Do you have something to report to the police? We can tell them what we know and let them take over and _leave_. We owe Grainger nothing more, after all, and I believe your contract is nullified by lack of any real intention to pay you.”

Opening his tired, yellow eyes, Crowley let his head flop sideways so that he could look at Aziraphale properly. “What we know?” he echoed. Sighing, he let his eyes slide shut once more, “Thing is though, we don’t know anything. We’re still stuck here waiting to see if the killer actually has the balls to make a definite move – and from what I’ve seen of him, the little shit doesn’t.”

Something ruffled in Aziraphale then, something not quite sitting correctly. He had assumed that Crowley had seen what he had seen, knew what he knew, the sinking feeling in his stomach told him otherwise, though. “But,” he frowned, tried to organise his thoughts, steeled himself. “Where have you been tonight, Crowley?” Beside him, Crowley went very still. “What did you see? I saw Fabio, I thought you must have done too...”

Instantly, Crowley’s form lost all of its elasticity and he was upright on the edge of the sofa, his drink dangling from his fingers, forgotten, his eyes spreading to full yellow, something he only ever allowed when exhausted or overwhelmed. “Fabio?” the name was almost spat out into the night. “What do you mean, you saw him? Where the fuck did you go where you could see him? What did I tell you about wandering around on your own?”

The viciousness was not needed, in Aziraphale’s opinion, and he felt himself bristling in response, not only to that but to Crowley’s constant refusals to explain himself further. “I didn’t go anywhere,” he bit back. “I stayed exactly where I was, minding Grainger like you had told me to, despite you disappearing off like a will-o-the-wisp every time I turn my back!”

“Like a _what_?”

“Don’t start, Crowley, I am absolutely not in a humour to pander to you any longer.”

Beat. “ _Pander_ to me?” Crowley’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “And what, _exactly_ , is that supposed to mean, then? What have you been doing here that has simply been pandering to me?”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Aziraphale shook his head. “You are not distracting me that way, serpent,” he muttered. “I want to know about Fabio. I want to know what you know. I want to know what you saw tonight, see if it matches with what I saw.”

There was a pause, a beat of silence and then, “Well, what did _you_ see?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Ah, no. No. You first.”

Crowley pushed to his feet. “Doesn’t matter, then,” he muttered, stalking away to lean against the wall. “I’m not the one with my knickers in a twist demanding to know this, that and the other.”

Flushing, Aziraphale rose, his fingers curling into fists at his side. “I’m not demanding to know anything!” he hissed, doing his very best to try and keep his voice down and avoid waking Grainger. “I am simply asking if we can possibly share the information we do have. It’s all I’ve been asking all along, and all along you have been as obstinately uncooperative as possible! Keeping your own counsel and yet expecting me to blindly follow your orders and do your bidding!”

Crowley took a step in, “This is _my_ case!” he growled. “My case and my fucking _agency_! I invited you along because I thought you would enjoy the food and the drink, that’s all! Not to stick your damn nose into everything I am trying to do and constantly interfere!”

As if an invisible hand had reached up and slapped him across the face, Aziraphale jerked backwards. “What? You think I am doing _what_?”

“You can’t help it,” Crowley, it seemed, was on a roll. “You never have been able to. Just because of _what_ I am, and all the shit of that, you think that you know better than me, think better than me, Hell, that you _are_ better than me, and I’m getting fucking sick of it!”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale could hardly fathom how they had found themselves in this position. Crowley thought _this_ of him? How _long_ had Crowley thought this? “No, absolutely not. This is about Fabio, I told you that! And I saw him, I saw him through the window! I’ve never thought that I’m better than _anyone_!” and he hadn’t – not ever.

“Through the window?” That fact alone seemed to resonate through Crowley’s anger. Aziraphale watched as his shoulders dropped a couple of angry degrees. “What did you see?” he asked, his eyes boring into Aziraphale across the room.

“He was outside,” he pointed to the wall of Grainger’s bedroom, indicating the grounds outside, “Walking across the lawns towards that path the three of you seem to like so much,” he couldn’t stop the venom. “And he was carrying a sack,” for a moment, he was sure he saw Crowley’s eyelids flicker, a hastily aborted blink perhaps? “A _bloodstained_ sack, from the back door of the kitchens, all the meat by-products, Ada told me, and enough to use to write on the walls with blood for certain. What’s his plan then? Has he told you? Coming by later on, is he? Hoping to catch you asleep and write all over the wallpaper once again? And what’s the motive? He just enjoy scaring a sick old man? Or is he actually going to do it? Does he have the _balls_? I’m sure _you_ , out of everyone, would know…”

The words hung in the air. Crowley stared at him, a deer in the headlamps, Aziraphale thought, his eyes red-rimmed and unblinking, his face expressionless, his jaw twitching. The moment pulled out and then, abruptly, Crowley deflated, turning on the spot, elbow resting on the mantlepiece, the gin and tonic finished in three, large gulps, his free hand rising up to scrub through his hair. “Fabio Trentini has nothing to do with all of this Grainger-shit,” he suddenly sounded exhausted. “I keep on telling you this, angel. Neither he, nor Elsie.”

Conversely, Aziraphale felt his own anger notch up another few levels. “You _do_ keep on telling me that,” he parried, “and yet you never say why! You never tell me what’s going on. You never tell me anything other than to do what you want and keep my mouth shut like a good little angel!”

“I never say that and-”

“You’re just as bad as Gabriel!”

The words brought Crowley up short and Aziraphale watched with more than a niggle of guilt as he swallowed and looked into his empty glass once more before carefully setting it down above the fireplace. He seemed determined to ignore the insult and instead adjusted his position, flicking a cautious glance Aziraphale’s way. “It’s not Fabio and it’s not Elsie,” he maintained, his eyes on a distant wall. “I’m sorry, but it’s James Shepherd.”

Aziraphale’s first reaction was to laugh at that, a quick burst of incredulity at the thought of James and his big, blue eyes and golden hair, but then he stopped as he took in Crowley’s scowl and remembered the events of the evening and his laughter trailed away. Letting out a long sigh, he rubbed two fingers up against the bridge of his nose. “You think?” Crowley’s scoff was hardly an answer. “Why?”

Again, there was a long pause, Aziraphale watched the muscle in Crowley’s jaw working and wondered precisely how hard he was grinding his teeth. “He told me. Told me he was going to ‘sort Grainger out for good’. He certainly put _me_ in _my_ place, tonight,” the false humour was typical Crowley deflection. “Appointed himself your champion, has he? I’m surprised we’re not duelling at dawn.”  
  
Remembering James’ erroneous assumptions, Aziraphale flushed. “I never asked him to say any of that to you.”

“Course you didn’t. Not your style. Why send an errand boy if you’re planning on saying it yourself, anyway?”

“Crowley, what-? I am not planning on saying _anything_ myself!”

“But you know what he said?”

That drew Aziraphale up short and he felt his cheeks flush as Crowley’s gaze zeroed in on him across the room. “Well, yes. I do actually. He came to see me, after you had gone. Off with your ‘new friends’ he said,” that triggered a memory of the conversation and he straightened up a little, narrowed his own eyes Crowley’s way. “He also asked if I knew what people said about them. Fabio and Elsie, I mean. You wouldn’t know about that, would you? Being so _intimate_ with them and everything?”

“Ah,” Crowley smirked his most irritating of smirks across the room at him. “So that’s why you think they’re up for killing Grainger, is it? Because you’re _jealous_? Not very _angelic_ , angel. And you say _I_ remind _you_ of Gabriel.”

“Certainly not!” Aziraphale could barely get his words out around his indignation. “I think that they are ‘up’ for killing Grainger, because I saw Fabio wondering across the lawn with a bag full of animal detritus! That’s why! Perfect for writing threats on bedroom walls!”

“Or feeding to your dogs,” Crowley’s reply was so fast that Aziraphale felt his own mouth snap shut. “Didn’t think of that one, then?”

“Does he even have dogs?”

Crowley nodded. “Three.”

Silence again and then, recovering himself, Aziraphale tried again. “And James? You’re convinced that he’s ‘up’ for killing Grainger because he accused you of behaving badly towards me? You’re going to need more than that to go to the police with, Crowley.”

Across the room, Crowley held his stare. “No one is going to the police, Aziraphale.”

Beat.

Blink.

“What?”

Crowley shifted so that he was leaning against the wall, sliding a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and slipping them into place before folding his arms and affecting a pose of complete nonchalance. “We’re not going to the police,” he repeated quietly. “Like you said, we have nothing to offer them. Nothing compelling anyway, on Shepherd _or_ Fabio and Elsie.”

“So,” Aziraphale had the most awful feeling that he knew where this was going. “What are we doing, then?”

Crowley shrugged. “Waiting. A few more days and then-”

“No,” Aziraphale was shaking his head as he spoke. “No, Crowley. Absolutely, definitely not!”

Blankly, Crowley stared at him. “Why not?”

“Because I have had enough of this place!” he took a step in, watched as Crowley obviously forced himself to keep his place and not back off. “I have had enough of all the lies and all these _dreadful_ people! I have had enough of trying so hard to protect a man I’m not even sure deserves our protection! I have had enough of the way they look at us, treat us, treat _you_!” Crowley blinked at him, it was obvious, even from the other side of his glasses and Aziraphale took another step closer, took a deep breath. “And – I’m fed up of what this is doing to _us_.”

Crowley deflated, his shoulders dropping, his chin almost touching his chest. “Angel, I know. But this is my _job_ , and I need to see it through. Three or four more days and-”

“No!”

The pause was heavy, awkward, and Crowley shook his head, drawing his arms more tightly across his chest. “I have to do this.”  
  
“No, you don’t. We have to go home.”

“Aziraphale. Angel… this is my _job_.”  
  


“You don’t need a job!”

“Yes, I do!” Pushing off the wall again, Crowley dragged his glasses from his face, dangling them from his fingers by an arm, his eyes flashing with anger and something else, something far more painful. “I am the demon that Hell doesn’t want! What am I if I don’t have a _point_?”

“Don’t have a _point_?” Aziraphale shook his head. “I am the angel that Heaven doesn’t want. What is my point, then?”

Folding his arms firmly across his chest once more, Crowley seemed to curl in on himself. “What’s _your_ point? Think about it, angel, the last day we were in London, the last day you were at the bookshop, how many little miracles did you do? How many aches and pains did you soothe away in the old and infirm? How many twenty-pound notes or job offers did you hide in forgotten pockets? How many pushchairs did you rescue? How many lost cats did you find? How many tips did you double, or sales did you push? How many people did you _help_ , angel? Just in one day. Tiny acts, maybe, but how many people had a brighter day because of you? Just in that twenty-four-hour period?”

Aziraphale flushed, he had no idea that Crowley had even noticed.

“And me?” Suddenly, those long-fingered hands were held out towards him, shaking ever so slightly, and all Aziraphale wanted to do was to wrap his own hands around them, pull Crowley in close, fold him against his own chest and hold him, keep him safe for ever more. “What do you want me to do? Spoil the milk in the café? Wilt all the flowers outside the garage? Skin a few knees and sink a few ducks? You want that to be my contribution, Aziraphale? Acceptable evil rather than the more high-grade stuff? Because I don’t. Not anymore. I want to do _this_. I want to help like _this_.”

Of course, all of that made sense, but still, “And I want us to go _home_ ,” Aziraphale maintained. “No one said that you _can’t_ do this, it’s just,” Aziraphale couldn’t think how to best express himself, shook his head with the frustration of it all. “Nothing good will come from this, my dear. _Nothing_. We need to leave; I can feel it.”

There was silence at that. Aziraphale could see Crowley thinking it through and so he held his breath, crossed his fingers behind his back and waited. And then: “I need to finish this properly.”

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted into his shiny shoes. “Crowley!”

“I do. And I’ve told you before that you don’t need to stay-”

“Don’t start that again.”

“-but I do because I need to finish this _properly_.”

They stared at each other, five metres and a million miles separating them.

“I’m calling the police.”

Crowley blew out a long breath and scrubbed his fingers under his glasses, “Angel, no…”  
  


“I am. I’m calling the police. Grainger should have done that from the start, what was he thinking, paying you instead?” Crowley threw him a death glare from beneath his fingers. “Death threats are a matter for the police to deal with – they won’t care that we haven’t found the culprit, they will come and investigate, and everything will be alright. And _we_ can go home.”

Head bowed, still hiding behind his fingers, Crowley shook his head. “Don’t do this to me, angel,” he whispered.

“I’m not doing anything to you!”

“You’re not taking me seriously!”

The last was delivered through gritted teeth, the glasses back in place, Crowley’s hands curled into fists at his side, but Aziraphale found his eyes rolling up in his head almost of their own accord. “Crowley – oh, please stop being so dramatic!”

He saw the slightest jerk as the words landed but Crowley didn’t respond. The moment pulled out. Crowley folded his arms again, took a breath, lifted his chin. “I’m staying here,” his voice was shot through with steel and the brittle coldness of it prickled against Aziraphale’s nerves.

“Well, I am calling the police and getting this fixed.”

Crowley shrugged. “Not on _my_ mobile you’re not.”

A wave of anger washed through Aziraphale at that. Honestly, the stupid, _stubborn_ , petty, ridiculous demon! He pulled himself upright. “And that is supposed to stop me somehow, is it?” Did he think that Aziraphale was inept? I have used a telephone myself, you know,” he spat. “I’m sure there will be a perfectly serviceable rotary telephone around here somewhere,” he strode towards the door, throwing a filthy look Crowley’s way as the shimmering edge of a demonic miracle skittered past him. “That’s cheating,” he hissed but Crowley just shrugged at him.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he muttered.

In the doorway, right at the very edge of it all, Aziraphale stopped, wavered, turned around. “Please Crowley,” he could try one last time. “Please do this with me. Please help me end it.”

Crowley didn’t reply. He just pressed his lips together and tightened the arms across his chest. Aziraphale let the moment roll out, let it all swirl and build around them but still Crowley did not budge, and that fact was like a knife sliding right between his ribs. “Right then,” his voice was tight, edged in shattered glass. “You’ve made your bed, you can lie in it. You’re on your own now, Crowley, do you understand that?”

Still nothing but a glare from the demon and rolling his eyes, Aziraphale slammed out into the corridor.

~~*~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd been so determined, when planning this, that the pair of them would be so much _better_ than I usually write them, so much more mature and skilled in communication. It seems, however, that I have reverted to type and failed miserably in that aim! I apologise, obviously this is just the way I see them - emotionally hopeless!
> 
> I still absolutely promise a happy ending, though. I think that is important to remember :) 
> 
> Indigo x


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